Tears Of the Violinist
by SUPRNTRAL LVR
Summary: Sherlock is taken by Moriarty, and when he's found he's going to need John more than ever as he makes his way slowly back to normality. Contains violence, strong language, angst, whump, etc Set just after TGG
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, just the plot bunny**

**Haven't done a Sherlock fic before, but I'm so into the series and need something to keep me going until the next series comes out. I'm sure this has been done before in some way, shape or form, but I couldn't think how Sherlock would react to being abducted... I can't see him asking for help or admitting how scared he was, but I can see him relying on John even more than usual. So, anywho, this idea wouldn't go away. I have a bad track record with updating recently, so this might be a one shot.**

**Warning: includes whump, violence, blood, some bad language and at the moment this is not a slash fic**

If somebody asked John Watson what the most terrifying moment of his life had been, he might have said that time a panting, bloodless Lestrade had turned up outside his door and explained to him in a strangely high pitched voice that Sherlock Holmes had disappeared while they were checking out a lead on Moriarty. Had John heard from the detective? Had he received any messages? Or, no, perhaps the most terrifying moment of his life had been a few seconds after that, when John did indeed receive a message - a photograph of Sherlock standing against a plain white wall, a blindfold tied over his eyes, his lip split and glistening with blood, the word 'MINE' scrawled across the image in ugly red letters. Maybe not. In fact, it could have been any one of the next million moments over the next week in which the police combed London and found nothing, and in which John received text after text after text...

_Worked it out yet? - M_

_Sherlock says hi - M_

_Do you think I should mess up his face? I was going to leave his lovely face alone, but it's getting rather tempting... - M_

_You'll have to buy him a new shirt, think I ruined this one - M_

_Want to join in? - M_

_Let's make a bet - how long do you think it'll take for me to get him to scream? I'm saying one hour - M_

_His eyes are so pretty, I might keep them - M_

John wanted to throw his phone away. He wanted to bury himself somewhere dark and warm and pretend this horrible nightmare wasn't real. But he couldn't even bring himself to switch his mobile to silent. Instead, he forwarded each message to Lestrade, who responded every single time with something along the lines of 'do not reply'. Even though John knew that there was only so much longer he could bear to just ignore the sneering grin behind the words, the poking, prodding, nagging, gleeful jibes.

And then, quite suddenly, everything turned around. John's mobile bleeped, and he looked at it with dead eyes, only to jolt awake with a surge of adrenaline.

_John Fourteen Bere Streett Hurryu_

It was the 'John' that did it. That and the extra 't' and added 'u' - both evidence of shaking hands during the execution of the text. Not Moriarty, and that could only mean one thing. And Lestrade, leaping into action at John's garbled words down the phone, had told him to stay put, stay at Baker Street, it could be a trap. A thousand other irrelevant reasons that had John protesting in a shrill yelp. Perhaps the following two hours had been the worst, most terrifying moments of John Watson's life, moments spent circling 221B like a lunatic, tearing at his hair, lashing out at the sofa or the desk, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He had never felt such a violent wave of emotions in his life - rage, at being left behind; panic, at the rushed text; fear, because Moriarty was sure to find out what had happened; helplessness, at his exclusion from the rescue. How could Lestrade leave him behind? How could he not know that surely, no matter how horrific the sight, Sherlock was going to need John more than anyone right now...

And then two hours and thirteen minutes later the phone had rung, and John had fallen on it like a ravenous wolf. Lestrade, at last, calling from the city hospital. Saying words like 'critical condition' and 'severe internal bleeding' and 'lot's of blood' and 'a few more minutes and it would have been...'

John had never screamed at a cabbie so much in his life, demanding that the man go faster, skip the lights, he didn't care, just _get there now._

And despite all of this, all the terrifying moments that had passed by him, all the times his heart had seized with fear and his gut had clenched, still... sitting in the plastic, sterile, too-bright waiting room with a cup of water forced into his shaking hands, waiting, waiting... maybe this was the worst moment. What a bloody stupid question to ask anyway. John watched the nurse at the reception desk like a hawk, flinching every time she looked up, half-rising every time she moved out from behind her post to retrieve something. His gaze flicked between her and his watch, and the clock on the wall, and the clock on his mobile, just to check if time was even passing at all. His good leg jigged uncontrollably, knocking against the chair leg, shoe squeaking on the disinfected floor.

It was no surprise that, by the time Lestrade appeared, John was past breaking point. He leapt to his feet, the cup of water spilling unceremoniously all over the floor, and darted forwards as soon as the older man came into sight, words spilling from his numb lips.

"Where the _hell _have you be - never mind - how is he? What was the damage?"

Lestrade raised his heads, his face wan and lined, his eyes dull. John noticed that there was a smear of blood on his shirt, and then noticed again with a sickening jolt. For the thousandth time his mind took the texts on his phone and applied them to Sherlock's body.

"Calm down, John, take a breath-"

"For god's sake, will you just _tell me?_ It's bad enough you wouldn't let me come-"

_"_For your own safety."

"I don't - Jesus - Just _tell - me!_"

His voice had risen to a harsh yell and his hands had somehow managed to fist in Lestrade's lapels. The nurse at reception noted this and made as if to step forwards, but Lestrade waved her back, shaking his head.

"We're fine, we're fine," he called, forcing a small smile. He patted John's hands, pushing them gently away. "John, he's awake and he's stable - well, as he can be."

John felt his legs tremble with relief and made a grab for Lestrade again, this time to keep himself upright. He shut his eyes and sucked in a few gulps of oxygen, struggling not to sob, just letting 'awake' and 'stable' echo in his mind.

"Oh god, oh god, thank god..."

Lestrade's hands were on his shoulders, steadying him. "That's right. But John, he's suffered some terrible injuries."

"How bad?"

Lestrade's mouth quirked. "Bad. Listen, they need you to calm him down."

John blinked. "Calm him down?"

"He wouldn't let the paramedics give him anything, wouldn't take the injections. He took some mild pain releif when he got here, but now he's refusing to take an IV and any more medication. John, you're the only one who might be able to talk him round."

"Does that mean I can see him?"

A nod. John span away from Lestrade and made for the corridor, the detective inspector hurrying after him. The ICU was quiet and the lights soft; three in the morning wasn't a typical visiting time. The two men made their way through the soft bleeps and sighs of the machines, the vacant stares of the patients who were still half-awake. John's gaze skated over them as he and Lestrade passed, knowing that Sherlock was in a private room further down the ward. He opened his mouth to ask the details, and then shut it again. He didn't know whether he wanted to know. He would find out soon enough... He caught sight of two armed policemen outside a door and quickened his pace, then broke into a run at the sounds of distant shouting.

"You see what I mean?" Lestrade panted, on his heels.

John saw. The police stepped aside at the sight of Lestrade and John barreled through the door. In the small room, chaos had broken free. A tray of equiptment had been spilled across the floor, along with an IV bag and its frame. A nurse was trying to clean it up whilst dodging the orderlies and the two doctors shouting themselves hoarse to be heard over the racket. The orderlies were struggling violently with their kicking, screaming patient, trying to keep him down, trying to catch hold of his arms, helpless attempting to restrain his flying fist. A fist that was skinned and bloody. Fist singular - the other arm was wrapped around his side. It was pandemonium, and yet all John could feel was a dizzying, heady thrill of emotion as he saw those pale green eyes, usually so collected and cool, now wild and slanted with panic. Eyes set in a bruised face. Blood streaked across his cheek. Pupils dilated, slightly uneven... John's medical brain sped into overdrive.

"Get off me, get off, _get off!"_

"Mr. Holmes, please, try to-"

"No - stop it - take your hands off me!"

"Mr. Holmes, we'll have to sedate you!" One of the doctors cried, her face red with exertion as she made a grab for his arm. A pillow tumbled onto the ground as he dragged himself free. "Please, will you just-"

"_Don't touch me!"_

There was an edge in his tone, a wild, high-pitched edge that had John jerking into action. He darted towards the bed, pushing his way through the orderlies. One turned and tried to force him back, but Sherlock's gaze finally found John's face and something lit up in his face. He broke away from the orderly and snatched at John's wrist, catching it in a vice-like grip. His lips pressed together, his breath caught in his throat, and John caught up the claw-like hand in both of his own.

"Let go of him." He heard his own voice adding to the fray, barely aware he'd even commanded himself to speak. "Do it, now! I'm his doctor."

The orderlies hesitated, the doctors paused. Sherlock remained hunched, his free hand still balled into a tight fist, his shoulders heaving. John caught a glimpse of blood - a lot of blood - spotting through the bandages near his ribs and suppressed a rush of fear. He had to calm Sherlock down, before any more damage was done. He thought fast, made a snap decision, and glanced over his shoulder to look for Lestrade.

"Excuse me? I was under the impression that Mr. Holmes was being submitted to our care," the second doctor said, his voice tight, his hair ruffled from the struggle. "In case you hadn't noticed, Mr. Holmes is in need of immediate attention - "

"Yes, I could see that," John interrupted, slipping into his clipped, military tone. "Very good job, too. Could I have a minute, please?"

"A minute?" the first doctor spluttered. She was younger than the man, dark brown hair, fierce eyes. "This isn't exactly a wonderful time, he's not even supposed to be having visitors!"

"One minute," John insisted, holding her stare. "I'm sure you can see he needs to calm down. Please, just... Lestrade?"

Lestrade nodded, tugging at the second doctor. They protested, they argued, but the police uniform worked wonders on all members of the public. Slowly, the orderlies and the nurse began to move towards the door. John turned his back on them at once as Sherlock let out a sigh and fell back against the propped-up bed, his grip on John's arm easing. And at last - after a week of torment - at last, John could see him. He took in the bandages criss-crossed over his chest - wound to the right shoulder then, and another to his ribs on the left side - and the ugly, blotchy bruises that stretched from shoulder to hip, the nasty, vivid burn slanting over his forearm, the bleeding gash stretching over his temple... He imagined the crack that had filled the air as Sherlock's head met a firm surface and inwardly cringed, hurrying back to his analysis... split lip, bruise darkening on his cheekbone, graze across his jaw. So physical trauma. A lot of it. Plus the slight trembling that had taken hold of his limbs now that the fight was finally over, the sweat glistening on his shoulders and upper lip...

But he was alive. He was _alive._

"You okay?" John murmured, moving closer to examine the bruising reaching across his side. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock hissed in pain and flinched away from John's probing fingers. "I said get off, and I mean it!" he snapped, his voice hoarse, his tone surprisingly harsh.

John lifted his hands at once, blinking. "Sorry, I'm sorry. They said you refused medication - "

"If I wanted someone to stand here and try to inject me with mind-numbing crap, I wouldn't have let those two leave!" he snapped, jerking his head at the door. The motion made him groan in pain and he dropped his head into his hand; before John could reach for him, he had looked up again and fixed him with a piercing glare. "John, get me out. Get me out _now."_

John stared at him. "Sherlock-"

"Don't you dare, John, don't you _dare, _you need to take me home."

"But-"

"I'm not staying here another minute, I don't care what you say."

"Listen-"

"I'll go myself if I have to, I'll catch a cab-"

"Will you _let me finish?_" John said, finally raising his voice. "Will you just let me talk?"

Sherlock shut his mouth quickly, opened it, and then shut it again. John took that as an invitation to speak, or at least as much of an invitation he was going to get. He caught Sherlock's eye and held his gaze, keeping his voice calm.

"Listen to me, okay? You've been missing for a week, and you've got a fair few scars to show for it. You must be in a lot of pain, and you're in shock-"

"I'm not in shock," Sherlock muttered icily.

"Of course you are," John retorted. "You're shaking, your breathing's too shallow, your skin's clammy. Care to make a deduction?"

Sherlock hesitated, then pressed a shaking hand to his eyes. John let him take a few seconds to recognize the truth in those last few words, and then carefully pushed a little further.

"You have to let them treat you, Sherlock, or you'll be in even worse shape later. Just let them check you over, have a rest, and we can go home in a few days."

Sherlock was shaking his head already, his jaw tight. "No. No. I want to go home now. We have to go _now._"

"Why?"

"Because-" Sherlock bit off his own words, halting, pulling in a breath, trying again. "Because he'll get in. He has people everywhere. Even now, he might already have people here... John, take - me - home."

Those hard, ground-out words struck John to the core. He wet his lips. Despite his anxiety and fear, Sherlock could have a point. Moriarty did indeed have webs everywhere... He remembered that Sherlock had been refusing medication and felt a jolt of fear. Drugs. Of course. If Moriarty was already here, it would be all too easy to spike an IV line, to send in some fake nurse... And the thought of losing Sherlock again, so very soon, was bad enough to make John want to take him back to 221B Baker street and barricade the door. But still... He took a deep breath and reached out for Sherlock's side again. Sherlock pushed his hand away, making a low noise of frustration.

"Just let me have a look," John said. "You trust _me,_ don't you?"

Sherlock lowered his hand, allowing John to touch the purpled skin of his ribs. He winced, and John murmured an apology.

"This looks painful..."

"Two broken," Sherlock said shortly, taking another sharp breath as John's fingers moved upwards.

"And here?" John touched the bandage wrapped around his midriff.

"Crowbar. Cut me a bit."

John swallowed hard, lifting his eyes to the gauze taped over his right shoulder. "Here?"

"Stabbed me. With a letter opener."

"He _what?"_

"He stabbed me, John, I wasn't there to have fun."

"God..." John thought for a few seconds, then reached up to push the hair away from the gash, still weeping blood. His palm grazed Sherlock's forehead, felt a slight temperature. "I think you might need stitches for this. Sorry, I'm trying to be gentle... You've got a slight concussion, hmm?"

"Yes. Nothing I can't handle."

John sighed heavily. Sherlock watched him with hungry eyes, drinking in every movement.

"You're trying to decide whether you can treat me at home. I know you can. You can do it easily."

"Quiet."

"John... please."

John rolled his eyes and crossed to the door. Sherlock sat upright hopefully, struggling and failing to suppress a moan as he moved his injured ribs. It seemed now that the adrenaline was ebbing away, he was starting to feel his wounds a little more. John opened the door and leaned out, caught the eye of a nurse.

"Can I have a suture kit, please?"

The nurse looked him up and down, frowning, but again the presence of the police worked its wonders and she nodded. John shut the door and headed back over to Sherlock, whose face had fallen.

"John-"

"Sherlock. I'm going to sort out your head, and then we'll see how you feel, and then maybe - _maybe - _I'll talk to Lestrade and see if I can take you back home tonight."

Either Sherlock knew when he was beaten, or he was too exhausted to fight John on the topic any longer. He leaned back once more, holding his broken ribs, stifling a whimper. The dark circles under his eyes were even worse under the glare of the hospital lights. He was still shaking, still fighting to bring his body under control. John reached down to pick up the pillow that had fallen to the floor in the confusion and slid it behind his head.

"Try to rest, okay?" he said. "The door's secure and I'm right here."

Sherlock closed his eyes, but the tense tremor in his limbs remained. The nurse returned with the suture kit. Apparently Lestrade was handling the doctors; they had yet to return. John got to work on the gash, moving carefully and slowly, apologizing quietly for every flinch beneath his hands. As he went, the trembling lessened ever so slightly and the breathing became just a little more even. Sherlock was finally beginning to calm down. But the tremor in his tense limbs still remained.

As he finished the stitches, the door inched open and Lestrade peered in. John gestured for him to wait and laid down his instruments, shooting Sherlock a smile as the detective looked up.

"Be right back," he said softly, laying a hand on his shoulder before heading towards the door. Sherlock's eyes remained on his back until he moved out of sight.

He took Lestrade out of earshot, hoping Sherlock would see sense and refrain from attempting to escape while his back was turned. Unsurprisingly, Lestrade was not impressed by Sherlock's plan to leave the hospital, or John's support of said plan - "He's literally just out of the frying pan, and you want to toss him back into the fire?" - but eventually, after much convincing, he reluctantly began to look around for the doctors. Whenever Moriarty's name was mentioned, conventional methods were cast aside. Moriarty - who had not been caught at the scene, and who was still evading Lestrade's best officers - could be anywhere, could be everywhere, could reach into every corner of London. And, like John, Lestrade didn't want to take the chance that his reach included the hospital. It took longer to tackle the doctors, but eventually Lestrade's badge ended the conversation and John managed to score an instant discharge. With his medical training, the doctors couldn't deny that he was more than capable of looking after Sherlock from home, while they still searched for every loophole they could. John couldn't blame them - if a strange man had marched into his clinic, taken over control of one of his patients, and then announced that he was going to whisk said patient off to an unequipped flat in London to recuperate, John doubted he would have taken the news very well either.

He returned to Sherlock's room with a set of hospital scrubs and a pair of trainers a nurse had found for him piled in his arms. Sherlock was sitting up, waiting, one hand clenched in the blanket. At John's nod, a brief smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. True, John would have preferred a smile of smug victory to a smile of weak relief, but at this stage he couldn't afford to be picky. He crossed to the bed and helped Sherlock put on the scrubs - noticing another bruise on his hip as he went - and pulled the top over his head. He paused every time the detective gasped, moved slowly, letting Sherlock set the pace. Then he guided Sherlock to hold onto his arms as the other man unsteadily swung his legs off the bed and leaned forwards, clutching his side, breathing hard through his nose. His gaze was becoming slightly glazed; every so often he would shake his head, as if trying to wake himself up, and then his face would contort in pain. John pretended not to notice. He knelt down to put the shoes onto his slender feet, then stood and pulled off his own jacket. He eased Sherlock's arms into it. It was baggy on John, but the sleeves barely reached past Sherlock's elbows.

By the time they were finished and ready to go, paperwork signed, a police car ready outside, it was almost dawn. Holding him under the elbows, John helped Sherlock off the bed and lowered him into a waiting wheelchair. He paused, touching the other man's arm. Sherlock hunched over himself, leaning his forehead on his knuckles, his face worn and lined.

"Ready?" John said softly.

A nod. So John nudged the wheelchair into motion. Lestrade walked out to the car with them, offering Sherlock a few words of comfort which the detective chose to ignore. They all seemed to have aged years in that single night, and the first grey light of the next day hit them as John eased Sherlock into the back seat of the police car. He mumbled a goodbye to Lestrade, took the hand offered to him. They would be meeting again soon for Sherlock's statement, and both were too tired for proper goodbyes.

Baker Street finally rolled into sight, and John felt an ache of longing for a cup of tea and his own bed. He hadn't slept much since Sherlock's abduction, and he suspected that Sherlock had done so even less. He didn't wake Mrs. Hudson, aware of the ridiculous hour, and the fact that she, too, had seen a stressful week. He hadn't even told her Sherlock had been found yet, caught up in the panic of the moment. The officers offered to help him bring Sherlock upstairs, but he declined. Sherlock's brow was furrowed, his mouth a hard line, his shoulders tight; he wanted to be left alone just as much as John did. So John climbed out onto the pavement and put an arm around Sherlock's waist, lifting the other man up out of the car. Sherlock leaned on him heavily as they made their way over to the black wooden door of 221B, paused while John found the key. The trek up the stairs was slow, John taking a step and stopping to support Sherlock after him before taking the next. But at last, they found themselves shuffling into the living room of 221B, early morning sunlight brushing the window panes, the smell of failed experiments and burnt toast light in the air.

"There you go," John said wearily, relaxing his hold on his burden. "Home. Does that feel better?"

Sherlock simply looked around, sniffing at the air. He looked strange in the blue scrubs and John's too-small jacket, the tattered trainers. Not quite himself. John suppressed a yawn, scrubbing both hands across his face. "Oh, dear... cup of tea?" He glanced into the kitchen. "Don't know if I can be bothered... how's water?"

It was as if, now that he was finally back home, finally away from the prying eyes of the officers and the doctors and the public, something broke inside Sherlock Holmes. His lips twitched uncertainly, his nostrils flared. He took an unsteady step forwards into the flat, and then without warning his knees gave way beneath him. John darted forwards and managed to catch him, slowing his rapid descent to the ground.

"Whoa, whoa, Sherlock! Hey, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes had slid shut. John's stomach lurched. He ghosted a hand over his face, felt soft breaths against his palm, felt a slightly thready pulse. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his pale skin, bruises standing out in purple blotches. Too soon, far too soon, god what was he thinking, bringing him home from the hospital? And with everything he'd endured over the last week, everything that John still had to find out about. His eyes moved to that right shoulder. _Stabbed me. With a letter opener. _John shook his head. He eased an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, scrabbling for his phone with his free hand, ready to call an ambulance to take them straight back to the hospital. As if he could hear the thoughts racing through John's mind, Sherlock's eyes flickered open.

"Sherlock!" his voice shook with relief. "You scared me... can you hear me?"

"Yes," Sherlock mumbled, blinking slowly. "I'm just... I'm..."

"Sherlock?" John repeated, more quietly this time.

Sherlock's vacant gaze found John's. He blinked slowly. "Exhausted," he said, his voice soft.

John nodded, placing a palm against his forehead. His temperature had climbed higher. He would have to start taking the antibiotics the hospital had given them as soon as possible.

"Alright," he said. "Come on, then, let's get you to bed."

He stood up slowly, lifting Sherlock with him. Sherlock's legs shook wildly as they took his weight, and John quickly pulled an arm around his shoulders and wrapped his arm around his waist. Murmuring encouragement, he steered the semi-conscious man back out into the corridor. Sherlock was growing heavier with every second, and his room was just a little too far down the corridor... John's, on the other hand...

John toed open the door and half-carried Sherlock across to his bed, silently cursing for not changing the sheets when Mrs. Hudson had told him to. He would have preferred them to be clean as possible... it would have to do for tonight. Tomorrow, he could take Sherlock back to his own room. But for now, he threw back the covers and let Sherlock drop down onto it, eyes closing once more. Still talking gently, John took off the jacket and then the trainers and tossed them aside. Sherlock remained sitting up, listing to one side slightly, until John guided him down onto the pillows. By the time he had lifted his legs up onto the mattress, he was sure that Sherlock was unconscious. He pulled the duvet up and tucked it in, then retrieved another blanket from the cupboard to spread over the detective. Then he sank down on the edge of the bed screwing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

He could barely believe that Sherlock was actually back. The last few hours felt like a dream, like something that could never really happen in real life. And yet, somehow, it had all happened. Sherlock was safe. John looked down at him, that strange and beautiful face marred with bruises and blood. He sat for a few minutes longer. Then, yawning, glancing at his watch, he heaved himself to his feet and made his way into the kitchen. He could leave a glass of water by the bed, and then if Sherlock woke up, he wouldn't have to try and make it to the kitchen. Maybe with a few painkillers. Maybe he would make that cup of tea, too. He put the kettle on, put a teabag in the cup. He sank down into one of the kitchen chairs.

By the time the kettle had boiled, John was asleep, head pillowed on his arms, slumped over the table, as if nothing in the world would ever wake him up.

**Reviews are welcome.**

**I suppose if I did carry it on I'd include a flash-back part for Sherlock's time with Moriarty... depending on what the demand is, or if people are interested. Hope you enjoyed.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, just the plot bunny**

**And yeeeeeaaaaaah John's bedroom is on the floor above, but I'm doing it like it is in my mind and it just fitted to do it like this sooo... bite me :P But special extra gold stars to people who noticed, we all clearly watch Sherlock waaaay too much for our own good ;)**

**Thank you very much for the kind reviews.**

**Warning: includes whump, violence, blood, some violence, and no slash**

The sun was blazing like a torch, its unbearable heat scorching the back of John's eyes. Bullets were flying past his face like flies, and all around him in the long grass and among the crumbling walls there were grown men holding their insides in their hands or lying in dark pools of their own blood. It always shook John when he heard them begging for their mothers as death came surging towards them. There were so many of them, too many for John to handle alone... god, why was he on his own? Where was back up? Had he even radioed them? He began to reach for his radio, and then realized with a jolt that he was holding a man's shoulder together with his bare hands, blood pouring all over his protective bullet vest. Sweat was slick against the back of his neck and under his helmet hat, his hair sticking to his forehead. It was so hot, so, so hot. He could barely breathe. And there was so much noise, the explosions, the gunfire, the screams. He felt an abrupt stinging pain and looked down, then yelped as he saw blood spreading over his own chest. This wasn't supposed to happen, not here, no, no, no... He lifted his gaze, his heart hammering wildly, ready to scream for help, for someone to come and help the man he was still holding together. And then saw with a sickening jolt the curly dark hair, the sleek, angular face... Sherlock... Sherlock was in Afghanistan, bleeding out before his very eyes, hot blood pouring between his fingers. He heard himself yelling, his own voice strangely distant -

Mrs. Hudson flinched as John sat bolt upright, and then gasped in pain as the blood began to rush into the arm that had been pillowing his head on the table top. She touched his arm and he started, blinking owlishly.

"What?" he managed.

"I didn't like to wake you, but you were asleep on the table," she said anxiously, squeezing his shoulder. "Poor love, I said you weren't getting enough sleep."

He stared at her, trying to remember exactly what he was even doing in the kitchen. The night before - or was it earlier that morning? - came back to him with a bang and he scrabbled for his watch. He'd been asleep for around six hours. _Six whole hours. _He hadn't slept that much in the past week put together. He suddenly became very aware of the sweat on his forehead and upper lip and brushed at his face, looking quickly away from Mrs. Hudson, who was still hovering over him anxiously.

"Did you fall asleep late? The kettle was boiling away over there, you know!"

He suddenly remembered that Mrs. Hudson had no idea of the events of last night, that he hadn't told her when he had received the calls from Lestrade, or when he went dashing out of the flat like a madman yelling for a taxi. He felt a sudden pang of guilt - she acted like a mother for he and Sherlock, and he had left her out of everything. He cleared his throat as she crossed the kitchen, retrieving the cup of tea she had evidently just made him. He knew that soon she would be asking if there had been any news, if Lestrade had found anything - it was why she had come up to the flat every morning over the past week.

"Fancy sleeping out here, you'll ruin yourself, pushing yourself so hard."

"I couldn't use my room," he said at last. "Sherlock's in it."

Mrs. Hudson dropped the mug of tea with a loud crash, and her hands jumped to her face. He didn't know whether she was more shocked at the broken china or his bluntness. She stared at him with wide eyes, and then rushed past him and out into the corridor. He heard her stop, heard a slight pause, and then heard the door of his room creak open. There was a beat of silence. John pushed himself up to his feet and bent to clear up the mess on the floor, scooping up the broken fragments before retrieving a cloth. As he wiped up the spillage, Mrs. Hudson reappeared in the kitchen, her face white. Her eyes were red, and she wiped at them before speaking.

"Wh-When?"

He smiled wearily at her, dropped the tea towel onto the draining board. "Last night, very late. Lestrade called me from the hospital. Sherlock wanted to come home."

Mrs. Hudson let out a little sob. John headed over to her and pulled her into a hug, letting her cling to him for a few long moments as she struggled to bring herself under control. Eventually she let go, sniffing, patting her pockets for a handkerchief.

"Oh, oh dear, look at me, so silly... The hospital?"

"He had a few bumps and bruises, but he'll be fine," he assured her quickly. "Don't you worry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll look after him."

For some reason, those words almost set her off again and John had to put the kettle on to calm her down.

"He was still asleep," she said, having sat down at the table with him with the tea. "He didn't look very well, dear, should I make us all some breakfast?"

"How about I go and ask him?"

John very much doubted that Sherlock would be in the mood for a fry-up, but Mrs. Hudson had the right idea. Who knew when Sherlock had last eaten? And those antibiotics had to be washed down with something. He rooted a glass out from the bottom of the sink, rinsed it out, and filled it with water. He paused, trying to think through the long list of things he had to do. He still felt tired, as if he hadn't slept at all. His mouth felt old, his skin dry and papery. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Do you think you could... you know, give me a hand?"

She nodded at once, smiling at him. "Oh, of course, dear, whatever you need."

"It's just I need to go and check on Sherlock. Do you think you could change the sheets on his bed? Bit more hygienic, you know? And then I can move him into there, somewhere a bit more familiar."

She was nodding again before he'd even finished, halfway out the door. He could hear her opening and closing the airing cupboard at the top of the stairs, hurrying to and fro. He sighed heavily, then picked up the glass of water and headed back to his room, feeling for the antibiotics the hospital had given him in his pocket. He paused outside the door, which now stood ajar after Mrs. Hudson's look inside. He could see Sherlock's figure in the dim light, still lying in the same position John had left him in the night before. John had a ridiculous impulse to knock before entering. He shook it off and eased the door open, stepping inside. He approached the bed softly and put the glass of water down on the bedside cabinet, surprised that his entrance hadn't woken the keen-eared detective. But Sherlock showed no signs of waking; his face was unearthly pale, his lips dry, his eyes flitting violently to and fro beneath their lids. As John leaned closer, he made out a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, his dark curly hair slightly damp with it. Perhaps a minor infection? John cursed silently for letting himself fall asleep so fast the night before - if the antibiotics had been administered a few hours earlier, this could have been avoided. Sighing, he crossed the room to his wardrobe and got down his first aid kit from the top shelf; Mrs. Hudson had one in the kitchen, but John's was better equipped and came with a few extra perks. He made his way back to the bed and sat down cautiously on the edge of it. Sherlock flinched slightly in his sleep but still didn't wake. John reached for his uninjured shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock, can you wake up for a little bit? Sherlock?"

He was using his 'patient's voice' - quiet, calm, just enough tone to give him authority. The 'trust me, I'm a doctor' voice. Usually it sent patients into a relaxed, responsive mood; now, Sherlock jolted awake with a sharp gasp and made to sit up before crying out in pain. John hurriedly pushed him back down again.

"Easy, don't forget those ribs," he said, trying to smile. "You alright?"

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room twice before settling on John's face. Only then did the rigidness in his limbs ease off a little, the fear in his eyes die. John tried to pretend not to notice, busying himself by setting the first aid kit down on the bedside cabinet and picking up the glass of water. He offered it to Sherlock, who after a brief hesitation propped himself up on his elbows and accepted it. He sniffed it before drinking. John pulled the antibiotics out of his pocket and popped a couple out.

"You should have these, too," he said, holding them out. "Should really have them with some food, but Mrs. Hudson's rather eager to make breakfast, so..."

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. John held his gaze, quirking an eyebrow. The silence stretched on.

"They're antibiotics, Sherlock, they're fine. I promise."

Slowly, as if he was expecting the tiny pills to explode at any second, Sherlock took them. He rolled them around in his mouth for a little while before gulping them down, then pushed the water at John and lay down again, squeezing his eyes shut. John ran an eye over him, noting the soft tremor in his hands and the shallow, sharp nature of his breath.

"Why am I in your room?"

Sherlock's sudden question was so unexpected that John nearly dropped the water. It was a Sherlock question - straight, to the point, short. Even if Sherlock's voice was slightly hoarse, the sound of it sent a pang of relief through John's chest.

"I was tired," he explained, smirking. "You're surprisingly heavy for such a skinny git. I couldn't be bothered to go to the end of the corridor."

"I want to be in my room."

John nodded. "Yeah, yeah I know, Mrs. Hudson's just changing the sheets."

Sherlock frowned.

"She's not touching your things," John added hastily. "Just the bed, okay?"

Sherlock nodded wordlessly. John wet his lips uncertainly, and then reached out for the bandages covering Sherlock's right shoulder. Sherlock batted his hand away. John made a small noise of frustration in the back of his throat and tried again, only for Sherlock to forcibly shove his fingers off once more.

"Sherlock! I just want to have a look at it."

"Why? I've taken your pills," Sherlock ground out from between clenched teeth. "I just want to sleep."

"You can sleep in a minute, once I've-"

"No."

John took a deep breath. "Sherlock. I've just discharged you from a hospital literally a couple of hours after you've been rescued from Moriarty. Now, I did that because you said you would let me treat you from home. I did not do that so you could lie around in bed getting an infection."

"I - don't - care."

"What?"

"I said I don't - care," Sherlock said icily, opening his eyes a crack. "I don't care what I said or what liberties you took, John, I want to go to sleep now. Everything hurts, my head is imploding, I don't want to have breakfast with Mrs. Hudson, I don't want to make small talk, I want to go to bed, and I want to stay there. _My _bed."

He had clawed himself upright as he spoke, breath hitching, jaw twitching, and now he had made his point he threw the duvet back and rose to his feet in one fluid - and fast - movement. John leaped up, reaching out to steady him as he swayed, but Sherlock simply gripped the cabinet and shook off his helping hand. At that moment, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway.

"John, his room's ready - oh, Sherlock! Sherlock, dear, it's so good to see you up and-"

She broke off as he pushed past her and made his way down the corridor, leaning heavily on the wall as he went. Mrs. Hudson shot John a startled glance; he shook his head and made to follow him, but Sherlock reached his room and shut the door with a final, determined bang. John stopped short, his hands balling into fists.

"Sherlock, you selfish, arrogant... urgh!"

He span away from the door. He should have known Sherlock would try to pull something like this, should have known that as soon as they got back to Baker Street the pleading would stop and the demanding would begin. Any sympathy he had felt just a few minutes earlier evaporated like steam. Mrs. Hudson hovered a few meters away, biting her lip.

"Oh dear. Don't worry, I'm sure he'll come round. Just had a bit of a shock. How about that breakfast?"

John trailed after her into the kitchen, still fuming.

He went back again twice that day. The first time, Sherlock simply rolled over and pulled the sheets over his head. The second, he shouted. John had only heard Sherlock shouting a couple of times, real, angry shouting. The only time he'd directed something like that at John was in Dartmoor, after Sherlock had seen the phantom hound. John wasn't sure what was worse - the violent rage Sherlock hurled at him, or the way he was close to tears afterwards, hands gripping his head. John had withdrawn quickly, terrified of Sherlock causing himself more damage. After that he'd left Sherlock alone, and spent the evening sitting in the main room in silence, listening for movement. But Sherlock hadn't emerged, and John had eventually gone to bed at midnight unsatisfied.

The next morning, he had decided to be more forceful. Armed with the first aid kit and a glass of water, he'd returned to Sherlock's room. He lasted about ten minutes before his patience broke and he was shouting. Sherlock drove him out and shut the door. John stormed back to his room and sat at his desk, listening for movement through the wall. He heard Sherlock shuffling about, heard a dull thud as something fell to the floor. Then he heard the bed springs creak as Sherlock got back into bed.

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson braved the room around lunchtime with a tray of omelette, toast, oranges and tea, and was surprisingly successful. John lurked in the kitchen, picking at the scratches on the table, waiting. She reported that Sherlock hadn't spoken much, but had let her stay and chatter while he ate and had handed the tray back to her empty. Then he had lain back down again and shut his eyes.

"He's looking very peaky, dear," she said anxiously, washing up the plates. "Not well at all."

"He's being awkward, he's not letting me help him," John replied tensely, scowling as he wiped the dishes dry. "It's just typical Sherlock, locking himself away, trying to force himself through it."

"Maybe he just needs some time."

John had opened his mouth to argue, but then Lestrade had called and John had spent a considerable amount of time explaining why Sherlock wouldn't be coming into the station to give his statement, and no, John didn't know when he might be feeling up to it, and yes, he did realize that every second Moriarty was further away from their grasp... He felt like a fool, standing their making up excuses for Sherlock, having forced Lestrade's hand back at the hospital. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe Sherlock should have stayed in the intensive care unit.

He heard the bathroom door shut as the day crawled into late afternoon, heard the shower begin to roar. It stayed on for a very long time, and Sherlock stayed in the bathroom for even longer once he had turned it off. John went out into the corridor and waited outside, but when Sherlock finally emerged the steely glare in his eyes froze whatever argument John had got ready. He had taken off the larger bandages around his chest, and the bloody scrape on his left side blazed against his pale skin. He had re-taped the gauze awkwardly over his shoulder, although John could see that the area was red and inflamed. The bruises had turned a dull, blotchy grey-yellow and Sherlock's hands were shaking as he reached for the wall, pulling his dressing gown closed to hide his body, his battered face a startling contrast of white and red. John made a grab for his arm, trying to insist on examining him properly, but Sherlock simply pushed him off and slunk back into his room. John heard the bolt slide across on his door and swore under his breath, and then again more loudly for the detective to hear. An hour later, after Mrs. Hudson had carried in some soup and buttery bread, John heard the sweet, searing notes of his violin.

Sherlock played for hours, long into the night. John sat up again, sat at his desk, picked at the rough wood and waited for something to happen. As the hands of his watch crawled towards one, Sherlock's perfect melodies began to falter, every so often a flat note chipping at the music, a slip of the bow. Which would have been understandable for just about anyone else, but Sherlock didn't make mistakes. Sherlock always played flawlessly. If he was tired, he simply played more slowly or plucked the strings instead, but this time he was actually failing to hit the right notes, he was halting and tripping over some of the slurs. Eventually the music broke off sharply and John heard a muffled yell of frustration from the other room. He rose to his feet, stepped quickly out into the corridor. Sherlock's door was still shut. John stood listening in the darkness, the minutes crawling by, waiting for some indication... He didn't hear anything else. Eventually he withdrew back into his own room and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, raking his brains.

It was clear to him that this viscous cycle of Sherlock constantly rejecting his help couldn't go on. He wasn't taking the antibiotics properly; John had eventually left them in his room in the vain hope that Sherlock would at least make some kind of effort. But that plan seemed to have failed miserably too. Sherlock was too pale but his cheeks were slightly flushed, he constantly seemed to be sweating, which meant a fever, and the skin around his shoulder and side had been red and swollen. All of which pointed to a certain infection. Coupling that to the fact that he hadn't been eating properly - only two meals since he'd got back to Baker Street - and the length of time he had been missing for meant that if Sherlock didn't start looking after himself properly soon, he would find himself on an extremely rapid downwards spiral. John had seen it before with soldiers who under-estimated the dangers of not changing bandages often enough or forgot medication. He had to do something... but trying to _make _Sherlock Holmes do something was like trying to give a hurricane directions. It was impossible. Unless... John hesitated, and then retrieved his first aid kit and rooted through it. He found the pills relatively quickly and turned the little bottle over in his hand, chewing on his lip. The drug was a fairly low level sedative; one crushed up in a drink would be more than enough to calm Sherlock down and send him into a more pliable state without knocking him out. Because he couldn't be knocked out completely, John would have to ask him questions, especially if the infection had become worse. And Sherlock was forcing his hand, there was honestly no way around it. Did he expect John to just sit back and watch as his shoulder began to rot and his body began to destroy itself?

He couldn't just do nothing. He had to try.

He placed the bottle on his bedside cabinet and went to sleep looking at them, uncertainty tugging at his mind.

The next morning, he got up early and was in the kitchen with the kettle on before noises began to come from Sherlock's room. John had already brought the first aid kit into the kitchen and had it ready on the table. He poured out Sherlock's tea and made himself one too, hoping to avoid suspicion, and then crushed one of the little white pills to dust with the flat of a knife. He stirred the fine powder into the drink and then stood staring at it, watching the liquid swirl around the cup, coming slowly to a halt. Was he really about to go through with this? Drug his flat mate? But he had to, Sherlock was giving him no choice. It was either this, or back to the hospital. And if Sherlock was right and Moriarty was still looking for him, hospitals meant more dangers than they were worth. John took a deep breath, reminding himself of the many pros against the admittedly few cons, and then picked up the two mugs and balanced the first aid kit on his arm. As he approached the doorway, however, Sherlock himself suddenly appeared. He was wearing trousers and his blue dressing gown, armed with his violin, which he clutched in one hand like a lifeline. With the other hand he leaned on the wall, clearly trying to do so as discreetly as possible. His legs shook slightly beneath him and his face was bloodless, sweat standing out on his forehead. For a few seconds each simply stared at the other, both caught in the act, before John finally broke the pause.

"You're up," he said, trying to sound normal. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock moved his head in something that could have been a shake or a nod. He let go of the wall and made his slow, unsteady way over to the window, where he deposited his violin on the desk. He stood there for a while, looking a little lost. John stood on the threashold of the kitchen, watching, searching for some words. Eventually he decided to try one last time.

"Sherlock, I really do want to have a look at that shoulder of yours. You know you're not well, don't you? It'll take half an hour, tops, and then you'll start feeling better. Will you just...?"

He let his voice trail off, his heart sinking as Sherlock gave his head a short, definite shake. The detective was looking out of the window, his lips tight. It suddenly struck John how much weight the other man had lost - his dressing gown was hanging from his frame, his wrists tiny, his shoulders hunched. John swallowed hard.

"Listen, Sherlock, it's really, really important that you let me look after you."

"Go away, John."

There was no venom in the words, just a flat, empty tone that seemed to be even more offensive in its blandness. John forced himself to control his anger, his temper jumping over the edge at once, lack of sleep doing little to make him feel any more patient. He nodded, throwing the first aid kit down on his armchair. He headed over to Sherlock, who glanced at him, his eyebrows pulling together in a silent warning.

"Relax, will you? Here, I made you a drink."

The words sounded so false, even to his own ears. And yet despite his transparent lie, the great Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, couldn't see through it. Sherlock accepted the mug and returned his gaze to the street beyond the window, effectively dismissing John from the room. John retreated to his armchair but didn't sit down, sipping at his own tea, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. If the sedative caught him off guard, the last thing he wanted was Sherlock falling over and injuring himself further. Sherlock drank the tea in a few slow gulps and then put the mug down. He continued to look out of the window, a frown steadily working itself deeper onto his face. John abandoned his mug, wetting his lips, trying to inch closer to Sherlock without drawing too much attention to himself. Sherlock was beginning to list slightly to one side, his eyelids drooping a little, his hand groping for the windowsill. John closed the distance between them and reached for his arm.

"Sherlock, do you want to sit down?"

Sherlock's hand closed on the windowsill and squeezed tightly. His other hand balled into a white-knuckled fist. He blinked rapidly, his lips parting as he took a sharp breath. John got ready to catch him if he fell, but the reaction he eventually got was rather different to what he was expecting. Sherlock flinched violently away from him, sending half of the things perched on the edge of the desk tumbling to the floor, and fixing him with a stare full of sheer and utter terror.

"What did - what have you - you - what..."

The words were garbled and thick, tinged with fear. John reached for him once more, alarmed, but Sherlock suddenly tore away from him and staggered across the room, snatching for balance on the back of his armchair, his eyes squeezing shut. Words tore from his mouth, suddenly loud and shrill.

"_What did you do?_"

John stared at him, his mouth hanging open. "Wh... I gave you a little sedative, Sherlock, it's fine, really-"

Sherlock's legs were trembling violently, his nostrils flaring as he breathed hard and fast, his face drained of what little blood had been in it. John could see thick beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. By this time, the warning sirens were going off in John's head and he could feel his medical instincts kicking in, but he was terrified to even try to touch Sherlock. The other man's lips were moving rapidly, and John risked taking a step closer to hear what he was saying.

"In the tea, it was in the tea, I knew it, I should've known, should've tasted it, you put it in my tea, you drugged me, not you, you were the only one, not you, but you _drugged me, _I _trusted _you!"

The last phrase was thrown directly into John's face with a burning, tearful gaze and writhing lips. John watched as Sherlock's eyes flickered in and out of focus, and it suddenly hit him. Sherlock Holmes was having a panic attack. John finally managed to force himself into action; he took hold of Sherlock's hands and dragged the struggling detective around to sit down in the armchair. Sherlock pulled away from, bringing his knees up to his chest, and John hurriedly backed away, lifting his hands. He watched, aghast, as Sherlock screwed his thumbs into his eyes and began to rock on the chair, still hyperventilating, his whole body shaking. He was beginning to look visibly green in the face, and John contemplated running for a bucket.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, please..." He felt helpless, useless. He had caused this reaction, he had done this. He crouched down, keeping his distance still, trying to keep his voice measured and calm. "Sherlock, it's okay. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done it. I was just worried about you."

Sherlock was still mumbling at a hundred miles an hour under his breath, still rocking, his hands now gripping his head tightly. John resisted the urge to run to him, tried to focus on talking him through it.

"Sherlock, I'm here, don't worry. Please try to calm down, just try, okay? Let's take some deep breaths. You're alright. You're in Baker Street, you're safe. You know that, right?"

He kept up the steady mantra, kept talking, prayed that on some level he was getting through to the other man. They stayed like that for so very long, Sherlock curled on the armchair, John kneeling on the ground a few meters away, the chasm between them filled with John's halting words and Sherlock's heavy breathing. John's legs were beginning to ache by the time his method began to take effect - after around ten minutes, Sherlock's breathing began to even out, the trembling began to die in his limbs. His hair was wet with sweat when he lowered his hands, pressed them together in front of his face, shut his eyes. Finally John decided to move, his injured leg complaining loudly as he rose, but as soon as he did so Sherlock's head snapped up and his eyes flew open. John froze, as if he had been caught committing some terrible crime; in fact, in a way, he had. He couldn't bring himself to speak, guilt sealing his lips shut. Sherlock gazed at him, his eyes glittering with unshed tears, anger and confusion and simple _disbelief _hovering in his face. Eventually he spoke, his lips barely moving, uttering two stony words.

"Get out."

John's stomach lurched. "Sherlock," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "I'm so, so sorry. Really, I am. I didn't know you would react like that. I just wanted-"

_"I said get out! Get away from me!"_

It was a raw, primal scream, a sound that John had never heard Sherlock make before. Without warning, Sherlock suddenly surged up to his feet and took a few strides towards John, his fists balling once more, and without hesitating another second John turned and fled. He snatched up his jacket and shut the door behind him, tripping down the stairs without letting himself pause to think. Upstairs, he heard the violent, scratchy chords of Sherlock's violin, screeching and dry, ugly. He shoved his way out onto the street and started walking, walking so fast that he barely took in the world around him, his heart thundering in his chest, his blood roaring in his ears. He didn't let himself think, he didn't let himself acknowledge the shock and alarm that had closed over his lungs like a fist. He walked.

Eventually, he realized that it was drizzling slightly and that his hair was soaked through. He slowed down, squinting through the grey streets, finally lifting his eyes from his shoes. He had managed to get himself a long way from Baker Street, and the dull, dim streets surrounding him were unfamiliar. He turned around twice, and then finally spotted a tiny coffee shopped crammed between an Indian cuisine and a chippy. Eager for anywhere out of the rain and with strong coffee, he dashed across the road and ducked inside. He tucked himself away in a corner at the very back of the shop, managing to get out the words to order an Americano before sinking into silence and staring blindly at the table top.

He wasn't quite sure what had just happened.

He had seen people have panic attacks before, of course he had - he'd served in Afghanistan for god's sake - but never, _never _had he seen Sherlock have such an extreme and emotional reaction. Never had he seen so much hate, so much venom directed at himself. The image of Sherlock rocking and shaking in his armchair was burned into John's mind; he scrubbed both hands over his face, forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths. He'd completely blown it. He'd ruined everything. Sherlock would demand that he move out, and he wouldn't be able to fight him on it. And then Lestrade would ask questions, and then the paramedics would be turning up with their ambulances and their drugs and their stretchers and Sherlock would be carted off to the Intensive Care Unit, possibly even in a mentally unstable ward if he acted like this towards them. And god, it was all John's fault. He'd pushed him too far. He'd used the whip when the carrot didn't work, and he'd only managed to make things worse in the only way possible. How could he have expected Sherlock to just accept something like that? How could have been so _stupid... _Again, Sherlock's accusing stare flashed before his eyes, and John buried his head in his arms. He remembered that consuming terror. What if Moriarty had used drugs on Sherlock at some time during his abduction? And John had taken Sherlock's fragile trust and walked all over it. _Oh, no, Sherlock, it doesn't matter if I drug you because you're my friend, so that makes it okay... _He brought his fist down on the table with a sudden crash, making the couple to his left start in surprise. He didn't care. He'd just destroyed everything he'd had with Sherlock in one stupid, ignorant, rash decision. To his horror, he felt tears pricking at his eyes and brushed at his face brusquely. Clearly he'd been getting far too little sleep recently. And Sherlock himself was just too exhausting...

After a few long hours, he realized that he couldn't just hide out in the coffee shop forever. He paid the bill and emerged into the street, where the rain was now pelting down with a vengeance. He turned his collar up against it, but walked slowly on his way back to Baker Street. He knew that, when he arrived, either Sherlock or Mrs Hudson would be waiting to tell him that he had to move out, immediately. He didn't have anywhere he could go. He would have to spend the night in a hotel, call around for some of the friends he still vaguely kept in touch with, ask if he could stay with someone for a while. Maybe he would have to go and stay with Harry if things got really desperate, although that was definitely a last resort. He took the journey one step at a time, moving as slowly as he possibly could, but eventually he found himself standing outside 221b Baker Street. He squinted up at the storm clouds rolling over head and wondered if, should he stand there long enough, a bolt of lightning would just come down and let him escape from the whole situation. It didn't, and at last he let himself in and stood dripping in the hall, listening to the rain hammer on the doorstep. The house was quiet. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had gone out for the day - it was still only just four o'clock. John shrugged his coat off and ran the sopping material through his hands for a while before setting foot on the staircase. It creaked loudly, a fanfare for his arrival, and he listened for a response upstairs. He was met only with silence. Tentatively, he climbed the stairs with reluctant steps.

His room was silent was dark, and so was Sherlock's. He stood in the corridor for a while, wondering whether he should just pack up his stuff and leave without the need for Sherlock to make a scene. Eventually, he decided to just wait in the living room for something to happen, for somebody to tell him what to do, because for the life of him he had no idea. He shuffled into the living room, and then stopped short. There was a long, thick, silver string curling on the floor near his foot. He lifted his gaze, dreading what he would see, and saw a peg. Then a longer shard of dark, smooth wood... then half of a long, black neck... He heard his coat hit the floor, but he barely registered it, stepping forwards.

Sherlock's beautiful violin had been smashed to pieces. Bits of splintered wood littered the floor, some in larger chunks, others in tiny needles. John found himself scooping up the scroll, still mostly in tact, but with only one peg still embedded in it. He stared at it, imagining the force it must have taken to destroy it, and then with a jolt of horror tried to imagine the state Sherlock must have been in to do it. He felt a heavy wave of grief rise up inside his chest, felt his hand close over the scroll. That beautiful violin was like a symbol for Sherlock himself. It was part of the detective, a separate limb. And now, seeing it in pieces on the ground, scattered across the room like a dismembered corpse... there were no words for John to explain.

He didn't remember speaking, but he must have, because there was an abrupt clatter from behind him and he span around. The room was dark, as no lights had been turned on, but he could see a figure rising from the kitchen table in the half light. He actually found himself taking a step backwards as Sherlock strode towards him, into the slightly brighter living room. The detective stopped short. John could make out a strange wetness on his cheeks, a tremor in his chest, could see the gleam of his wide eyes. And then his gaze traveled downwards, and he saw the fine droplets of blood dripping from Sherlock's right hand. A spear of panic plunged into him, and he looked quickly at Sherlock. The detective's pale lips parted.

"I thought... I thought you weren't going to come back," he whispered.

John's tongue wasn't working. Of all the things he had expected Sherlock to say, that had certainly been at the very bottom. He took in the uncertainty in the detective's face, the rigidity of his shoulders, the giddy relief tugging at the corner of his lips. John blinked hard, wondering if the coffee had simply gone straight to his head and started a bizarre hallucination born out of sleepless nights and endless anxiety. Sherlock was swaying unsteadily on his feet.

"I thought you..."

He got no further. As John stood stunned, trying to organize his scrambled thoughts, Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head. Which was why, for the second time in just a few days, John Watson found himself on his knees with Sherlock's limp body lying heavy in his arms, calling the detective's name. Perhaps that won the award for the most terrifying moment of his life so far.

**Thanks for reading, reviews are welcome.**

**Hope you enjoyed it! Next chapter should be up soonish.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, just the plot bunny**

**SORRY about the kerfuffle over chapter updates, I have no idea what's going on, hopefully fanfiction will get itself together soon lol… Felt awful about all the messages saying the alerts weren't working!**

**Thanks for reviewing, and for the constructive criticism and general enthusiasm this story has been received with. I do welcome any tips you might want to offer :)**

**Also, special mention to LunarBlade Valentine who drew an awesome image for this fanfic, you can find it on deviantart under the same name - lunarblade. Name of the drawing is 'Tears of the Violinist'. Check it out :)**

**Warning: includes whump, violence, blood, some violence, and no slash**

"Sherlock? God, Sherlock, please, say something..."

John could hear his own voice shaking wildly as he tightened his grip on the detective. Sherlock's head lolled lifelessly against his arm, and John could feel the heat radiating off him through his shirt. An unhealthy splash of color had flushed his cheeks and sweat had soaked his fringe through... but if John didn't know better, he would say that there was a wetness on Sherlock's face that suggested tears. Except, Sherlock never cried, so that was impossible. His breath was too loud, rasping through his lips, taking far too much effort to drag in and out. John placed a hand on his face, grimacing at the burning skin, and propped one eye open with his thumb. The whites of Sherlock's eyes flickered blindly under his touch. John's stomach flipped over and he felt his heart thundering in his throat - he fumbled for his flatmate's pulse and had to force himself to stop trembling before he could feel the weak, thready thump under the skin. He pushed Sherlock's damp hair back, his mind strangely blank. Every instinct was screaming something different, his mind panicking. In the depths of Afghanistan, working under heavy fire, John had one clear task in mind - get the soldiers away from the conflict, get them calm, get them treated, get them back to base. But here... now... his brain wouldn't work.

"Sherlock," he said again, nudging the other man slightly. "Sherlock, come on, don't do this..."

His eyes moved downwards, saw with a jolt the blood staining the arm of his dressing gown. He lurched forwards, scrabbling to pull the sleeve back, his mind filled with horrific images of razor blades... but instead, he found himself examining a long, fine, slightly curved slit travelling across the palm of Sherlock's right hand. He spread the curled fingers, trying to see through the thick blood crawling from the wound. His mind was a blank, until he caught a glimpse of part of the broken violin out of the corner of his eye. He imagined the tiny, silver e string springing violently apart from the violin, whipping across Sherlock's tearing, destructive hands. A definite possibility, and a far more preferable one to the dreaded phrase 'self harm'. But no, Sherlock would never be so ridiculously predictable and dramatic... Although considering their current situation... John lifted his head, mentally kicking himself, knowing he had to act at once if he didn't want things to get worse.

"Mrs Hudson!" He rose to his feet, bellowing at the top of his lungs. "Mrs Hudson! _Mrs Hudson!"_

There was no reply. He remembered the thick silence he had encountered upon his arrival - Mrs. Hudson must indeed be out for one reason or another. Realizing he was going to have to handle this on his own, he bent down and tapped Sherlock's cheek gently.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock's face remained lax. Giving up, John gathered his strength and awkwardly took hold of the detective under his arms, lifting him upwards and heaving him towards the sofa. Sherlock's weight dragged him down; he barely made it to the sofa before his hands began to slip. There was no chance of getting him to a bedroom. He managed to lay the limp body down on the sofa, pulling a pillow behind his head. He dashed across the room, searching for his first aid kit he had left somewhere near his armchair, and, punching on the corner lamp, discovered it on the floor beside the fireplace. Scooping it up, he returned to the sofa and perched on the edge of it, hurriedly unbuttoned the damp nightshirt, pushing it aside. He saw blood spotting through the bandages and suppressed a groan of despair. Snatching up a pair of scissors, he began to cut through the untidy bandages over the shoulder wound and peel them away as quickly and gently as he could. They came free reluctantly, fused to the skin with dried blood in some areas, and John winced as they eventually pulled away.

It was the first time he had seen the stab wound properly, and the sight of it made him feel sick. It was a messy, torn job, as if Moriarty had twisted the blade - letter opener, Sherlock had said - around before dragging it out. The wound wept yellowish fluid and watery blood, the edges of it ragged and vibrantly inflamed. His shoulder was swollen too. John forced himself to take a steadying breath, reminded himself that he was a doctor, for god's sake, he was supposed to be used to this sort of thing. It was just that, when 'this sort of thing' was applied to Sherlock, things became more complicated... but Sherlock didn't have time for him to dither over his emotions.

John made his way into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then began rooting around in the cupboard for a bowl and clean tea towel. It took him a long time - although he did more domestic work than his flatmate, Mrs. Hudson was the one who usually supplied him with the means to do it. As he managed to root out a small tin dish and turned towards the table, he caught sight of a small note lying there. He blinked at it in confusion - how long had that been there? Had it been there that morning? Could he have been so distracted that he hadn't even noticed it? The kettle was beginning to boil, and his wild eyes couldn't take in the words. Deciding to come back to it later, he grabbed the kettle and half-filled the bowl before finally discovering a tea towel in the cupboard under the sink and dashing back over to Sherlock, who hadn't stirred. Telling himself that it was simply exhaustion coupled with a nasty infection, John returned to his seat on the edge of the sofa and wet the tea towel through, then pressed it against Sherlock's shoulder. The pressure earned him a small moan, and Sherlock's skin twitched beneath his touch.

He washed the wound out three times, desperate to be completely thorough, before he set the dish down and reached for the first aid kit, pawing through it for his little bottle of iodine. He dabbed the solution gingerly over the whole area, and Sherlock let out a hiss of pain. John glanced up to find his eyes open a crack, glazed and barely focusing.

"Hey," he said softly, stopping his hands, ready to back away should his patient panic. "You alright? Just fixing up the mess you made, might hurt a bit. "

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together, and for a second John thought he was going to push him away, but then his eyes slid shut again and his chest lifted in a heavy sigh. Surprised but certainly not complaining, John finished applying the iodine and, trying to move Sherlock as little as possible, wrapped a fresh bandage over the would as carefully as he could. He glanced at his watch, deciding to check on it in a couple of hours - he didn't want to think about what would happen if he let the infection get any worse. He wiped the dried blood away from the area with some of the lukewarm water left over, and then went over the graze on his ribs for good measure. It didn't look infected, but John was taking no chances. He then turned to the cut hand, which was now trailing on the ground, and carefully took it in both of his own. It had stopped bleeding, and he could see that it wasn't too deep, no real concern… just in an awkward place. Sherlock wouldn't be playing for a few days. Not that he would have anything to play _with… _Shrugging the thoughts away, he pressed the wet tea towel over the bloody palm and then smoothed a large, padded plaster over the cut before laying Sherlock's hand down by his side.

Finally done with his work, he placed the first aid kit on the floor and then strode back into the kitchen, emptied the dirty water away, left the tea towel in the sink. He filled the dish again, this time with cold water, and retrieved another tea towel from the cupboard. He hesitated, and then hurried out of the kitchen and into Sherlock's room, punching on the light switch. He found the antibiotics from the hospital under Sherlock's bed, untouched, sealed. Scowling, he snatched them up and returned to the kitchen, took up the dish and returned to the sofa.

"Okay, Sherlock," he said, sitting down once more. "This is your own fault, you know? Being a genius, you should know that when a hospital gives you antibiotics, you take them, you don't throw a temper tantrum and chuck them in the bin."

He balanced the box of pills on his knee. He felt surrounded by medical equipment, back in the medical tent in Afghanistan - first aid kit at his feet, dish and cloth in his hand, antiseptic in his pocket... all he needed was a stethoscope around his neck and he'd be back at work. Carefully, using slow, gentle dabs for fear of aggravating the head wound, he began to clear the sweat off Sherlock's face.

"So unnecessary, all of this," he muttered, pushing the wet hair back from his flatmate's burning forehead. "Just you, hmm? You can't ever do stuff the easy way. It always has to be... I don't know."

He ran a wet hand through the mop of curly hair, trying to tame it, and then gave up as it simply sprang back into place. Sherlock's eyes remained closed, veins forming a delicate web beneath the lids, lips parted as if he was about to speak. John immersed the tea towel in water, wrung it out, then folded it into a rough strip and laid it across his flatmate's brow, giving up on his task to move his unruly hair out of the way.

"It's just attention seeking, you know," he threw over his shoulder as he crossed the room and caught up a blanket from the window seat. He returned with it, spread it over Sherlock's motionless form. The detective's breathing had eased slightly, no longer as loud or as laboured. John checked his pulse again before placing his injured hand on his chest and trekking across the room once more.

"Showing off," he added with a grunt, gripping his own armchair and heaving it with some difficulty over to the sofa. The rug on the floor caught under its legs and he muttered a curse. "God's sake… Showing off, that's all it is… come on… You just couldn't stand that you were starting to get better, right? Needed to draw out the drama a little longer?"

He finally made it back to the sofa for the final time and dropped into his armchair, positioned directly beside the sofa facing Sherlock, close enough to check the shoulder wound after an hour had passed. He slouched down in the chair, massaged his aching eyes, imagined how nice it would be to just fall asleep. Maybe he should make some coffee.

"Mrs. Hudson will throw a fit when she gets home," he observed, smirking dully. "Blood-stained towels in the sink, mess in the living room, wood chips in the carpet. She won't like it, not one bit."

He paused. The room seemed very dark. The lamp in the corner, although it had illuminated his work well enough, now seemed nothing more than a dim glow across the room. The orange glare of streetlamps tumbled through the window, catching on Sherlock's hair. John closed his eyes for a few moments, heaving a sigh. Silence stretched across the flat like some great dark hand, broken only by Sherlock's quiet breathing. John suddenly found himself longing for the dulcet, sweeping voice of the detective's violin, and realized with a strange swell of grief that he wouldn't be hearing that noise for quite some time, if ever again at all. To his surprise he felt a lump rising in his throat, and hurriedly opened his eyes, trying to distract himself from the thought. And, with a cry of shock, found two pale green eyes staring back at him.

He didn't speak at first, gripping his armchair tightly. He wasn't exactly sure what he was afraid of. Was he expecting Sherlock to suddenly leap up, accuse him of being a back-stabbing, disgusting human being, and order him out of the flat? Perhaps not. The detective's cool, clinical stare pierced straight through John's skin, rifled casually through every thought that skated across his mind, and then withdrew with a slow blink. John wet his lips, but it was Sherlock's voice that crossed the void first.

"You stopped talking."

John's eyebrows jumped. "I thought you were uncon… asleep."

Another slow, heavy blink. "I went to my mind palace."

"Oh."

John wasn't sure what Sherlock was expecting, or what to expect from him for that matter. Sherlock's eyes closed for a few seconds, and then moved hesitantly across the ceiling. John could almost see him establishing where he was, what had happened, exactly how much time had passed since he had last been awake. But his gaze seemed slightly clouded, as if the cogs were turning slower, the calculations stuttering. John was about to speak when there was a loud clatter from outside. John started; Sherlock nearly leaped out of his skin, scrambling upright, his breath catching in his throat. John lurched forwards, pushing the other man back down as he grimaced in pain.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, just take it easy, you," he said, fixing Sherlock with a rebuking stare. "You're supposed to be recovering. Wait there, got it?"

Sherlock was gripping the sofa tightly, his jaw clenched, his wide eyes riveted on John's face. John pretended not to notice his fear, and held his head high as he crossed to the window and pushed the curtains aside. He watched as a drunk stumbled into another set of bins, sending them flying, and then swayed around the corner and out of sight. Relieved, John pulled the curtains closed and returned to his arm chair.

"It's nothing," he said. "All fine."

Sherlock looked at him for a while longer, as if trying to pick John's words apart, scanning each letter for a lie. Then, slowly, he eased himself back down and pinched the bridge of his nose with a shaking hand. John watched him, reaching for the box of antibiotics at his feet.

"How was the mind palace?" he asked, lightly.

"Very dark. The lights weren't working." Sherlock's voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but John could hear a soft tremor beneath his tone, barely noticeable. John rested his elbows on his knees, holding the box between his index fingers, trying to think of a good way to say 'I'm not trying to drug you again, but…' Before he could get the words out, Sherlock drove the heels of his hands into his eyes and let out a strangled, twisted sound that tore at John's heart.

"Sherlock?"

"Will you just _talk, _damn it?" Sherlock hissed, still clutching his head. "I _can't… _He's always _there, _right there, I just need you to… to…"

John could see the trembling start in his arms, see his shoulders jolt as his breath hitched, see every muscle begin to tense up. He hastily shifted forwards and took hold of Sherlock's arms, squeezing him gently, his voice loud enough to break through the mumbling but quiet enough to ensure calm.

"Sherlock, it's fine, okay? It's _fine, _I promise. I'm right here, there's no one else, there's just us. Just calm down-"

"I – can't," Sherlock snarled, his eyes flying open and fixing on John's face. There was an edge of wildness in them, the beginnings of hysteria in a self-proclaimed sociopath. John met his terrified stare and held it, maintaining physical contact, remaining calm.

"Yes, you can," he said steadily. "You're having a panic attack, Sherlock. Just like earlier, you remember? But it's just your body, just those chemical reactions ticking away, and you can stop them. Just take some deep breaths, hmm?"

Sherlock shook his head, but lowered his hands. He tried to breathe in but the effort caught in his throat and his face turned pale with panic. John folded his hands over Sherlock's, forcing the other man to look at him once more.

"With me, Sherlock, breathe with me. In – and out. Yeah? In – and out. That's it, that's good."

Sherlock held his gaze like a lifeline, his wiry fingers clenching beneath John's. Gradually, minute by minute, his body began to relax and his breathing even, the blood began to return to his face. John fluffed the pillow up, guided him to sit back. Sherlock struggled to suppress a groan and John cast a glance at the vibrant bruising still covering his side - all that movement couldn't be helping his broken ribs.

"Really good," he said again, squeezing Sherlock's hand one last time before letting go and attending to the rumpled blanket. "You've got it. You've got this. You don't have to be embarrassed, it's perfectly natural, perfectly logical."

Sherlock jerked his head in a small nod, formed a steeple with his fingers. John excused himself to get a glass of water, giving Sherlock a couple of minutes as he did so to compose himself. He was careful to whistle softly as he put the tin dish away, tided the abandoned tea towel, filled the glass up. He kept his ears pricked for disturbances, but when he returned Sherlock was still quiet. John picked up the antibiotics once more, waited for Sherlock to notice them before speaking.

"Sherlock, listen… earlier, I was… I'm so sorry, you can't imagine how sorry. But you need to take these now, or you're going to feel worse. I promise that they're fine, they're just antibiotics, there's nothing-"

He broke off as Sherlock took the water from him, held out a trembling hand for the pills. John blinked in surprise, and then quickly popped out two of the pills and handed them over, watching in disbelief as Sherlock washed them down.

"It's alright," Sherlock said at last, his voice quiet again. "You were trying to help."

John sat down before he fainted – not only had Sherlock just done as he'd asked, he'd even come closer to an apology than John had ever known him to. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock staring into space, his mouth a firm line.

"Feeling any better?" John asked.

They both knew he wasn't talking about the fever. Sherlock swallowed hard and said nothing, holding the glass so tightly that John wondered if he was trying to break it. Somewhere downstairs, Mrs. Hudson's grandfather clock chimed faintly. John was too tired, too absorbed in Sherlock, to even count the bells. It was very, very late, he knew that much. Sherlock was pressing his lips together.

"When I got back, I mean, with Afghanistan, with me, it was easier once I started talking about it," John offered. "I mean, not saying it'll make it all better, and if you don't want to that's fine too. Just… you know, if you feel… well, I'm not going anywhere. Basically."

He felt stupid saying something like that to Sherlock Holmes of all people – Sherlock, who talked only to spout a witty come back or to flippantly uncover someone's life history. And yet now, after everything that had happened, everything that was still to come, something of Sherlock's armour seemed to crumble before John's very eyes. It wasn't much; the way his mouth opened but spoke no words, the way his eyes blinked rapidly, the way he suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands. But it was enough. And just when the silence had lingered for long enough for John to give up, just when he was about to order Sherlock to simply get some sleep, Sherlock took a breath and spoke in a hoarse, halting voice.

"That… It was how… How they got me. In the coffee. Something in the coffee. Put it in when I was watching the one across the street… Reckon they'd got him to… Distract me, or… And then when I left I just couldn't…" He made an ambiguous gesture with the flat of his hand. "I couldn't… And next second, in the car, big black car, and there was…" Another gesture, sweeping inwards this time. "Chloroform."

John felt a wave of guilt rush through his chest. No wonder Sherlock had panicked earlier. He had mirrored Sherlock's kidnappers perfectly. He opened his mouth to apologise, to never stop apologising until he ran out of breath, but Sherlock wasn't listening. His eyes were distant.

"Woke up around two hours later, going by the light. Inside, in a disused office belonging to a woodchips factory, long since closed down, I guessed Northbank from the smell. Couldn't be sure though, I was still… foggy. I was alone. Hands tied with a jamming knot, professional job too, because I couldn't get free. I tried but…"

He came to an abrupt halt. John couldn't believe he'd even got this far – Sherlock wasn't the caring and sharing type. He didn't dare push him for more, especially now, while he was in this state. John shifted forwards a little, reaching for the glass.

"It's alright, Sherlock, we don't have to do this now. We can wait until-"

But Sherlock shook his head, running his tongue across his lips, fingers flexing. His hands were shaking. John hesitated, uncertain as to whether he should force Sherlock to get some rest, or just let him get it all out now. The whole business would have to be done again with Lestrade eventually.

"I couldn't get free," Sherlock said suddenly, his words hard. "Twenty three minutes passed. There was a camera in the corner. I waited. There was a letter opener on the desk, silver, expensive, glamorous. But the previous owner had left it behind, along with several files and other items, despite the fact that the office had clearly been abandoned for some time. So the occupant had been evicted suddenly, possibly publically. I thought I could kick the letter opener off the desk, maybe get hold of it, cut myself free. But then…"

He stopped again, lost in the image. John sat beside him, waiting, debating whether Sherlock would appreciate some kind of sedative, but he quickly dismissed the idea. He cleared his throat.

"Then…?"

Sherlock frowned slightly. "Then he came in," he said simply.

John could almost see him, clad in that immaculate suit, framed in the doorway. He could feel cords cutting into his wrists, smell the sawdust thick and dry in the air. Dry in his throat. He could even believe, for one second, that he could feel Sherlock's cool, calculating mind slowly processing Moriarty's curved smile, bright eyes. He could feel the long limbs, coat gone – in a corner, in fact, thrown to the floor. He didn't like that. They could have hung it up at least, Moriarty should know better, should appreciate how hard it was to get dirt out of a coat like that. The tall, thin, leering man stepped into the room, pushed one hand deep into his pocket, cocked his head to one side.

"Sherlock's burning, Sherlock's burning, fetch the engines, fetch the engines, fire, fire! Fire, fire!"

Moriarty's fingers pulled the top button of Sherlock's shirt open. The grin grew wide.

"Pour on water, pour on water…

You never did call me back, you tease."

**Nasty cliffhanger, I know… Angsty Sherlock is hard to write... Hope you enjoyed it.**

**Plus... flashback on the way in the next chapter, as is obvious :) Will include lots of violence probably, so if you don't like that kind of thing I'd advise skipping the next update.**

**Reviews are welcome, thanks for reading.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, just the plot bunny ;)**

**It's been a little while since the last update, so apologies for that. No, I haven't forgot about this one, I'm still writing. But to be fair, this chapter is massive and counts for about two chapters in one, so I reckon that makes up for the wait :P**

**Plus, thank you to DollyFreckles who has drawn a really gorgeous picture based off the line 'I thought you weren't coming back'. She's also on DeviantArt :)**

**WARNING: This is the chapter crammed full of violence, drug abuse, bad language, torture and the like. If you are a younger reader or do not like reading that kind of thing, I suggest you skip it.**

**Enjoy.**

_Talking, just simple talking... it had never been so terrifying._

_He could feel his breath racing in and out of his lungs, too shallow to do any good. He clenched his jaw, fixed his eyes on a spot on the flaking wall, removed himself. He did it in the same way that a biologist smoothly runs a scalpel down the belly of a frog to get to the intricacies of its insides. He stood in the great hall of his mind palace, at the top of the marble stairs, looked down at the elaborate, decorative banister. As he reached out to touch it, trying to ground himself in his own mind, the world flinched away from him and reality brought itself home with a flash of pain and light - Moriarty's fist had sunk into his stomach._

_"I said STOP ignoring me," the other man snarled through clenched teeth. His face was just inches away from Sherlock's own, his smirk gleaming in the half-light. "I won't be ignored, I won't. Now you look me in the eye. In the EYE, Sherlock."_

_He hated it when Moriarty said his name. It was as if the word was tainted every time he used it, smeared with dirt, stained with something Sherlock wouldn't be able to scrub out. He squinted into the consulting criminal's face, the world swimming before his eyes._

_"Stop running away. This, right here, right now, this could be one of the last few seconds of your life."_

_Moriarty had something in his hand, something that hadn't been there before, something that grinned in the light. Sherlock's mind recognized it slowly - a gun. A very familiar gun, the same make as John's. Moriarty put the cold barrel to Sherlock's temple, pushed a lock of his hair back._

_"Imagine if I killed you now. I want you to tell me what you'd regret. What would you miss the most..."_

_Sherlock was still trying to focus. His neck was throbbing violently. He tried to record his own symptoms, tried to figure out just what had been in the syringe Moriarty had plunged into his neck without warning. He could no longer tell if it had happened an hour ago or five minutes ago. Which was irritating - he liked to keep track of the time. His body kept trying to panic, kept straining to sweat and shake, but he forced his limbs into submission, kept his lips pressed shut. It took a great deal of concentration. And Moriarty didn't seem to like that._

_"I said LOOK AT ME."_

_The gun rammed under Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock suppressed a grunt, looked Moriarty in the eye with great difficulty._

_"What exactly are you expecting me to say?" he said, forcing the words between stiff lips._

_"Say? Nothing, nothing at all... I'm expecting you to scream."_

_Sherlock stared into that dark, twisted face and lifted his chin. He felt as if he was standing at a crossroads, two paths open to him. He was sure that they would both lead to the same, ugly end, but that didn't mean he was going to take the easy one. He wet his dry lips. "You first."_

"What did he want?"

Sherlock's fingers traced the rim of his glass. "He didn't want anything. He wanted to talk. He wanted me to tell him about myself. Answer questions. Random questions."

_He managed to work out from the light coming through the window of the office that he had been in captivity for around two days. Sometimes the persistent, deep ache of hunger sent pangs through his stomach, and his arms constantly roared with pain from being twisted up above his head, but he payed little attention to the sensations. He knew his own limits, and he hadn't reached them yet. Until he neared that danger zone, he would be keeping his attention on more important issues. For example, Moriarty's return with a second, larger man - one of the ones who had drugged his coffee and shoved him into the car - as the hours inched towards midday. The larger man stepped forwards, unrolling a strip of black cloth. Blindfold. Instantly, Sherlock felt his skin prickle and his mouth turn dry. His sight was one of the senses he depended on the most, aside from his sense of smell. Removing it would be worse than stripping him naked. As the rough fabric was tied behind his head he felt a stab of panic, lashed out with one leg. His movement was smooth and well-aimed, and the large man staggered backwards, yelping loudly, doubling over his crotch. Moriarty's gleeful peals of laughter echoed through the room._

_The larger man was not quite as amused._

_Sherlock bit back a cry as the meaty fist connected with his face, pounded again and again until the detective could see stars, could see the whole god-damn solar system John was so keen on drilling him on. When the stars receded again he was spitting coppery blood, gasping for breath, his weight dragging on the bonds around his wrists._

_"Out of the shot, Fletcher, out... I can't have you ruining the shot of my gorgeous boy here."_

_Shot? He heard the soft click of buttons - mobile. Mobile phone. So Moriarty was going to take a photo of him and send it to... well, who was there to send it to? Lestrade? Mycroft? Or... He swallowed hard, tried to wipe some of the blood off with his shoulder, simply ended up coughing._

_"Smiiiiiiiiile."_

_Sherlock wanted to say something clever, wanted to spout some witty comeback, but all his mind could think of was the sheer humiliation of being seen in this state. This state, this single image of himself blindfolded, restrained, _beaten, _revealed him to be a fake. Revealed him to be not, as so many of them seemed to think him, a genius, but an ordinary man pretending to be somebody fantastic. A fake. A cardboard cut out, that could so very easily catch fire if he would just make a mistake. Moriarty had a way of expertly extracting those mistakes and blowing them up like balloons._

_"Oh, yeah, love the camera..."  
><em>

_He turned his face away. He sensed the larger man - Fletcher - moving in close on his right and stiffened, waiting until the man began to reach out before bringing his knee up sharply. Again his attack found its mark, and again Fletcher yelled. Loud. _

_"Careful, Sherlock," Moriarty drawled from across the room, a faceless voice drifting through the dark. "Fletcher gets pissed off rather quickly."_

_The blow came on his jaw, and his head snapped back against the wall behind him. For a few blissful seconds, everything dropped away. He thought maybe he had just dreamed the whole thing... but then it all came back with an ungraceful lurch, and he realized that this was the first time in a long, long time that he had wished for his brother to find him._

_Moriarty talked for a while, but Sherlock kept his mouth shut, and eventually he heard the creak of floorboards as the consulting criminal wandered away, tapping away on his mobile. He hated the fact that Moriarty was so calm, so at home. Sherlock knew that his own relaxed exterior had already cracked, and the fact that Moriarty had beaten him on those grounds too was like a knife in his gut. Fletcher threatened him for a while, played with his rifle, but Sherlock ignored him. Fletcher had the voice of a man who had few intellectual capabilities, and therefore Sherlock considered him unimportant in his current situation. Moriarty had clearly brought him along as extra muscle, and a muscle that would be flexed at its master's command. So Sherlock shut his eyes beneath the blindfold and listened to the sounds of the building until Fletcher got bored and slunk off into the corridor to have a cigarette. Sherlock listened for roads, people, ships, anything... anything at all..._

_He didn't sleep as another night passed, but somehow Moriarty still managed to surprise him. One moment he was alone in the room attempting to pinpoint his location, having surmised the age and purpose of the building he was in, and the next a cold hand was on his skin and the sting of a needle was sliding into his neck. He flinched violently, tried to lash out, but Moriarty wasn't as predictable as Fletcher. The needle came free empty. Sherlock inched away as far as he could, even after he heard Moriarty saunter across the room to the desk and sit down on it._

_"Sleep well, sexy? No, of course you didn't. Neither did I. If you could see yourself... it's a rather distracting picture, if you know what I me-ean."_

_Sherlock tried to take a breath, but it evaporated in his throat. The drug seemed to be working much faster than it had the day before. Already he could feel sweat on his back, on his upper lip. He licked his lips, tasting flecks of dried blood. His prolonged blindness was as infuriating as an itch he couldn't reach, as frustratingly persistent as a cut on the roof of his mouth. And it was getting worse with every second. He didn't know what it was, but this drug was absolute hell. He stood there against the wall, horribly aware of the sweat soaking into his shirt and the shivers beginning to role over his body, the sounds creeping into his ears warped and disproportionate to their sources. The ground seemed to be bucking, the wall trembling behind him. His stomach lurched, and he suppressed a rush of nausea, teetered on the brink of losing control, clawed his way back at the last second. His hands closed over the bonds around his wrists, suddenly desperate for something solid. He could feel himself starting to panic as the room span, a fairground ride with the lights switched off, he could feel the fear mounting..._

_"You know your pet?"_

_Scrape. Scrape. Scrape._

_"What's his name... Joe? John. John?"_

_Scrape. Scraaaaaape. Scrape._

_"Don't tell me - you've brought me all this way and gone to all this effort because you want to know whether John would go to dinner with you. Apologies - psychopaths aren't his type." __His words were too fast, too breathless. He swallowed hard, tried to regulate them, but his throat was dry as sandpaper and everything was shaking, everything was melting, his skin was on fire and then it was cold... Moriarty meanwhile... Moriarty was so, so relaxed. Which only served to be more terrifying._

_"No, no, of course not... It's just, he's very quiet, isn't he?"_

_Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He tried to snort. "What?"_

_Scrape. Scrrraaaaaape._

_"He's very quiet," Moriarty repeated innocently. "I mean, you know how you make those delicious little sounds when Fletchy hit you? Well, he doesn't make any of those. Army training, perhaps."_

_Sherlock did laugh then, but it came out wrong. It rang out in the still, still air and was swallowed up in silence at once. He would give anything in that moment to be able to see Moriarty's face, to see the little twitches and shadows that lay a lie bare._

_Scrape._

_"I don't believe you."_

_"He's like a dog, isn't he? That's it." Moriarty didn't seem to have heard him. "Little doggy, following you around to the ends of the earth..."_

_"I don't..."  
><em>

_"Fletcher said it was hilarious, watching him trying to sneak in here. I gotta say, I thought he'd last longer though. Few hours with Fletch and he was all over the walls, like a big, bloody painting..."_

_Scrape. Scrape. Scrape._

_"Stop it. STOP IT." __Sherlock didn't know if he was talking about John or that infuriating, spine-chilling sound. That sound he couldn't for the life of him concentrate hard enough to work out what it was. His minds eye assaulted him with images of John, John bleeding, John screaming, John dying..._

_"Oh, no, Sherlock, don't be so weak. You don't need him, he holds you back, you know it. I've done you a favor."_

_"I don't believe you!" The words tore from his throat, louder and shriller than he had intended, and he hurriedly bit his lip. He no longer knew which way was up, and his body kept trying to retch. He helplessly snatched for control, tried to slow down his own breathing._

_Scraaaaape._

_"Temper, temper... Are you scared?"_

_"What?"_

_"Right now, are you afraid, Sherlock? Can you feel it chipping at you?"_

_Scrape. Scrape._

_"John's not dead."_

_Scraaape. Scrape. Scrape._

_"Prove it. Come oooooon. Prove it."_

_Thick droplets of sweat were rolling down his back, down his face. He sucked in a gulp of air, tried to remove himself to his mind palace. He stood, swaying, at the top of the marble steps, trying to squint through the haze of darkness before his eyes, trying to construct it all properly... and all he could see was blood. Blood pooling around his feet and cascading down the steps in a scarlet waterfall, blood rushing down the walls, blood trickling over the windows and turning the very air bright, bright crimson. A cold hand slipped through his hair, brushed his face, a forehead pressed against his own._

_"What's the matter? Am I ruining something for you? Have I BROKEN YOU, Sherlock? Was it really that EAAA-ASY?"_

_And now he couldn't leave, he couldn't get out, couldn't get back to reality. He stood, rooted to the spot at the top of those marble stairs he had worked so very hard on imagining to perfection, he watched his palace burning, and Moriarty remained directly in front of him, so close, too close, invading every aspect of himself..._

Sherlock's voice trailed off and he shut his eyes tightly, pressed his steepled fingers against his lips. He was trembling, pulling in deep breaths through his nose. John, already on the edge of his seat, inched a little closer. He wanted to make some kind of contact, but he knew better than to draw attention to the fact that Sherlock was finding this hard. In fact, 'hard' was an understatement. Sherlock was laying himself open, revealing all his weaknesses. He settled instead for reaching out and pulling the blanket aside, checking the ugly scrape on Sherlock's side. His flatmate flinched at his touch, but then collected himself and lowered his hands slowly, watched with dull eyes as John ran a thumb gingerly over the wound.

"That drug," John said softly. "Did you ever find out what it was? I mean, if it had any long term effects-"

"Moriarty's got tabs on all the latest drug networks." Sherlock replied quietly, monotonously, as if he had already turned the thoughts over a hundred times in his head. "The effects were similar to LSD, only extremely accelerated... I doubt this one's even selling yet."

"All the same, we should take a look at your blood."

"My blood's fine. The drug took six hours to wear off after each administration, I kept track. Any trace will be gone by now anyway."

John shot him a raised eyebrow. "It doesn't have to be at the hospital, we could do it here easily enough. You could do it yourself. Just to be sure, you know?"

Sherlock's shoulders heaved in a sigh of resignation. John noted that his flatmate was deliberately avoiding John's gaze, his ears slightly red, and carefully replaced the blanket.

"It's okay, Sherlock," he said, leaning back in his chair. "It's normal - it's _human - _to feel emotional in that kind of-"

"I was _not _emotional," Sherlock ground out, glaring up at him. "I was drugged, John. I was drugged."

He repeated it, as if he was convincing himself more than anyone else. John simply nodded, happy to let the topic go for now. Sherlock shifted on the sofa, ran a hand over his broken ribs with a tired wince. John caught a glimpse of the burn on his forearm and couldn't help but wonder what kind of terrible mood Moriarty had been in when he had inflicted that. A brief silence stretched between them, like the breath before a plunge.

_Moriarty stayed longer that time. And the scraping continued steadily, insistently, horrifically... it burned itself into Sherlock's ears, filled his whole head, stunted every useful thought that tried to form. As the drug took hold, Sherlock found it harder and harder to pay attention to what Moriarty was saying. The consulting criminal took a few calls, texted some people, had a heated argument with one of his criminal branches. He would play with the buttons of Sherlock's shirt as he talked, sometimes trace his cheekbones with an icy thumb. And when he finally left, yawning and singing to himself in a high voice, Sherlock could still hear it._

_Scrape._

_Scrape._

_Scrape._

_Scraaaaaaaaape._

_Tears were trying to force themselves out of his eyes, tears of sheer frustration, tears that blazed with humiliation. That was the last memory he had before his mind betrayed him. The next thing he knew he was waking up some time later, groaning in agony has his legs took his weight again and took the strain off his burning arms. He'd lost it. He'd lost the time. And now he couldn't see to work out what it was from the light. For a fraction of a second he panicked; then he gave himself a mental slap and began to rub his head against his arm, teeth gritted, trying to wriggle out of the blindfold. It was tied tightly, and the strip of cloth wasn't wide enough to slide off easily, but after a long, long time the knot began to work loose, and then finally it dropped down around his neck and bright early morning light hit him. He blinked, squinted, cast a quick glance around the room. He was alone. On the floor at his feet lay an empty syringe and needle, and he suppressed a shudder at the sight of it._

_The day passed slowly, each minute dragging. He spent it rubbing his wrists together, trying to loosen the ropes around them, trying to get free. The knot was expertly tied, but Sherlock set every other thought aside and focused. It wasn't easy. Moriarty's words from the day before - at least he thought it must have been the day before - were scorched into his head. He was certain, now that the drug had worn off, that John was not dead at all, that Moriarty had fabricated the story to make him panic. But it made no sense for John to be dead. If John had been here, Moriarty would have brought him up and killed him right there in front of his arch nemesis. That was Moriarty's style. So John couldn't be dead. At least, that was one of the few thoughts that kept Sherlock's mind ticking over._

_The sun passed across the window, its long shafts trailing across the dry floor. The light began to darken, the evening drew in. And as the sun sank below the horizon, the ropes came free and Sherlock slid down the wall and crumpled at the bottom of it, letting out a hoarse yell as his arms dropped down, as his shoulders seared. He closed his eyes, keeping as still as he could, allowing the blood to return gradually to his fingertips. He twitched his hands, shook off the bonds. His movements were heavy and clumsy. His body was trying to sleep but he ignored its pleas and heaved himself to his feet, staggering across the room to the window. He pressed his face to the glass. Yes. He had been right. Northbank, Bere Street if his assumptions were accurate. Which meant that he was in an abandoned factory near the Thames, number... yes, number fourteen, it had to be. With a rush of savage triumph, he turned and made for the door. And as he reached it, Fletcher appeared, his gun raised, a yellow-toothed grin spreading across his face. Sherlock ground to a halt, groaning in despair. He didn't bother to lift his hands. Fletcher strode forwards, caught him by the back of his collar, and dragged him across the room to the chair behind the desk, the barrel of his gun digging into the side of Sherlock's neck. He threw his inmate down and stepped back, the gun leveled at his head._

_"Where you goin?"_

_Sherlock stared back at him, wordless, furious at himself for letting such an opportunity slip away. If he'd just taken a second, just planned it out properly, he could be climbing down a fire escape at that very moment._

_"Ya know," Fletcher said, running his fingers over his gun. "Mr. Moriarty Sir is gone away. Won't be back for a while, he said. So I could do what I wanted. Whatever I wanted."_

_Sherlock let himself snigger. The motion hurt his arms, but he was too tired to care. He was beginning to feel dizzy from hunger, his head spinning a little. But he laughed all the same, and Fletcher's eyes narrowed._

_"Oi. Oi!"_

_"Go on, then," Sherlock smirked. "You do whatever you want to me. You flay my skin off and pull out my eyes. Just make sure you can explain to Moriarty why you ruined his fun when he get's back."_

_Fletcher's grin vanished, and Sherlock met his gaze._

_"Go on. I dare you."_

_Fletcher turned his back, crossed the room and picked up the ropes Sherlock had just shaken off. Sherlock eyed them as the large man returned._

_"When did you become 'Mr. Moriarty Sir's lapdog, then?"_

_"Shut your mouth."_

_"Long term prison sentences, three, I think, low achiever in school, failure as a builder, and you've been divorced twice... oh, and accused of domestic violence, I see, lovely... do forgive me, I'd like to know a little more but I can't be bothered to waste the energy."_

_Fletcher's eyebrows were jerking furiously at his scathing tone, validating Sherlock's statements as each jumped from his lips. Fletcher lifted his gun again, his lips peeling back from his crooked teeth._

_"You little-"_

_"Of course, we don't really need any of that, do we? Doesn't take a genius to look at your face and see that you have an IQ of around two. Or is it naught point five?"_

_The butt of the gun came down on his face, and as he plunged into the pit of unconsciousness he felt the blows continue._

"You're an idiot."

A hint of a smile graced Sherlock's lips. "I couldn't stop myself."

"I bet you couldn't. I'm surprised he didn't break your face."

"Not that night."

_He struggled back to consciousness to find himself on the ground, his hands tied behind his back. It took him a long time to force himself into a sitting position, partly because he blacked out every time he was halfway there and partly because he felt like throwing up. He slouched against the wall, staring up at the window before him. He had no idea what time it was, what day it was... he squinted dazedly around the room, and saw Fletcher sitting in the desk chair, his gun across his lap. He smirked, winced as the expression sent a spasm of pain through his cheek. A flicker of satisfaction crossed Fletcher's face. _

_"Not so smug now?"_

_Sherlock closed his eyes, considered going to sleep. He heard the shriek of the chair's legs as Fletcher rose, cracked his eyes open to see the man standing over him, the gun cradled in his arms._

_"Come on, tell me the name of my mother. Tell me my whole childhood. Figure out where I'm going to shoot you from the mud on my shoes."_

_"Where's Moriarty?"_

_Fletcher just grinned. "He's not back. Just you an' me."_

_Sherlock let his gaze slide out of focus. Fletcher had the air of a terrier that had been shut up for too long, a rottweiler looking to pick a fight. He could see what was about to happen laid out clear as a map before him, a smooth, inevitable chain of events. Whatever he said, whatever he did in the next few minutes, Fletcher was going to get angry. He considered going to his mind palace but the idea shriveled away almost at once - after his last experience in it, he wasn't sure he wanted to go back. He turned his attention instead to his face, which was throbbing violently._

_"Well?"_

_He shifted uncomfortably on the hard floor. "Well what?" he asked irritably. "If you have nothing remotely interesting to say, I don't want to hear it."_

_"You're one snarky little shit, aren't you?"_

_Sherlock cast his eyes skywards. "My god, you're boring..."_

_Fletcher's jaw worked, his hand tightened on his gun. __"Just... Just give me one reason..."_

_"I could give you a hundred. Shall we start with how you almost killed your first wife?"_

_And there it was - that twitch at the corner of Fletcher's mouth that signaled him giving in. He moved surprisingly fast for such a large man; in a split second he had Sherlock by the throat and was hurling him into the center of the room, tossing his gun aside. His massive boot connected with Sherlock's ribs once, twice, three times - and Sherlock flinched away from the experience. He was too exhausted, too dizzy to keep up the mental barrier, and the pain returned with a sudden lurch that had him lashing out in any way he could, black dots dancing before his eyes. He managed to deal a sharp, sudden blow to Fletcher's shin; the other man cried out, and then swore loudly and seized Sherlock by the collar, dragged him up off the floor. Sherlock shut his eyes as spit flew into his face._

_"You want to do this the hard way? Do ya?"_

_Sherlock couldn't see. Fletcher let him go and he landed hard on his front, listened as Fletcher's footsteps crossed the room and then returned. Sherlock caught up a handful of sawdust from the floor, pretended to be struggling to get up - which wasn't at all difficult - and then as Fletcher stopped behind him whipped around and let the sawdust fly - _

_Only to find the cold, hard edge of a crowbar slamming into his head. The world exploded in a wave of shattering shards of darkness and he felt the floor against his head, his reeling, stammering, stalling head... he withdrew from himself, saw at once what had happened, saw himself turning too early and meeting Fletcher's blow head on. There was hot blood dribbling into his eye. He rolled heavily over onto his side, and then screamed as the crowbar came down again on his ribs. The agony stabbed through him in sickening waves as the crowbar impacted with his body again and again and again and__ anatomy of the human body 101, structure of the rib cage, adapted to cover the most vulnerable organs from harm, stomach and kidneys just out of this protective casing and therefore dangerously easy to damage, self defense often employed the technique of attacking the kidneys to deter attackers -_

_CRACK._

_The sudden sound tore through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present with a terrible thud and he could have sworn he felt his ribs give way beneath Fletcher's blows. He heard himself screaming distantly, felt the heat of tears in his eyes... He realized dimly that Fletcher had stopped and forced his eyes open, struggling to catch his breath, a hideous pain invading every gasp of air he tried to gulp down. He saw Fletcher standing tall over his shuddering body, saw those meaty hands tearing off the black leather belt with the bronze buckle and reaching out. Sherlock's eyes dropped closed, too heavy to hold open - _

A chill had settled over John's limbs, a chill that ate into his heart and made his voice catch in his throat. He kept his eyes on Sherlock, searching for a hint of confirmation in those pale eyes. "Sherlock... he didn't..."

"No, he didn't. Moriarty came in. He was angry."

_The gunshots peppered the air, and through the mist Sherlock was vaguely aware of Fletcher's massive body hitting the floor nearby._

_"No, no, NO. Poor baby, just can't get the staff. NO. Stupid, STUPID."_

_Everything hurt so much. Pain rolled over him in thick waves, turned his limbs to trembling sticks of lead. He dimly recognized another thunder of gunshots, closer this time, and then a clatter as Moriarty dropped the gun. Sherlock pried his eyelids open, coughing and wheezing, the taste of blood sour and sharp in the back of his throat. Moriarty's face wavered above him._

_"You're_ my_ boy toy, aren't you?" Moriarty wiped the blood from Sherlock's temple with a silk handkerchief. Sherlock tried to twitch away from his grip but nausea reared up in his throat. He retched but his stomach was empty, and instead he just tasted bile, which in turn made him feel even worse._

_"You don't want that ugly brute, do you? Don't you worry."_

_Moriarty's finger pushed his chin up, and Sherlock found himself looking up into those twin pools of dark, dark eyes. Moriarty's lips twitched into a grin._

_"You're so, so mine."_

"Ow." Sherlock broke off, shooting John a glare.

"Sorry."

John's fingers probed the red swelling around the stab wound. It had gone down a lot since he had first attended to it, although some of the fluid was still seeping from the edge of it. He added a little more iodine, taped some gauze down, and then secured a loose bandage. Sherlock winced and wriggled and muttered. John checked his watch, and then offered him some more of the antibiotics. Sherlock gulped them down with a grimace.

"Was this... was this near the end?"

God, he wanted it to be. He wanted Sherlock to tell him that this was the final chapter of the torment. Sherlock raised and lowered his good shoulder in a weary shrug.

"It must have been."

_Moriarty passed in and out of the room. He didn't need to worry about Sherlock escaping - the detective couldn't even bear to roll over. His ribs roared with an agony he had never felt before, his head swung with great bouts of sickness that had him shuddering and choking. He could hear Moriarty wandering around downstairs, and at one point the rumble of machinery vibrated through the floor. Moriarty came wandering back upstairs, giggling loudly, his footsteps light on the floorboards. Sherlock barely even realized he was there until he was pressing something against his arm. He heard himself screaming, a raw, animal sound that tore from him like a knife, struggled desperately to get free._

_"Are you listening to me? I said doesn't - he - look - better - now?"_

_The smell of burning flesh assaulted Sherlock's senses. He finally managed to twist away, curling around his injured arm, gasping, whimpering, tears of pain flickering from the corners of his eyes. Moriarty's hand came down on him, pulled his head to the side, scrabbled at his eyes._

_"Look, look! Isn't that better?"_

_Sherlock squinted through the blurry fog of pain. He saw Fletcher, body riddled with bullet wounds, eyes blank and staring. He saw the thick, gleaming streams of blood spreading across the floor. He saw the skin of the large man's face, skin that was burned black, sizzling, blistering, drawn in a pattern that made two letters. JM. From forehead to cheek to chin. JM. Sherlock shut his eyes._

_"Just for you," Moriarty murmured, stroking his neck. "Especially for you."_

_Sherlock felt the needle sink into his skin and couldn't suppress a groan, his whole body tensing in anticipation of the fear that was about to come trickling through him. Moriarty wiped at the area with his handkerchief, carefully, intently. Sherlock tried to roll away, the smell of burning skin rancid in his nose, but Moriarty held onto him. The consulting criminal didn't need to use much force - Sherlock didn't have enough strength left to fight him off._

_"You know what I want? You must be wondering. What's all this about, hmm? Why's Jim doing it all?"_

_Lips brushed against his ear and he flinched, then made a desperate scramble to get away as he realized just how close Moriarty was to him. He hated people invading his personal space at the best of times, but in this situation it was hell. Moriarty's vice-like grip closed over his shoulder._

_"I want to see you squirm, Sherlock, I want to see you lose it. I want you to know just how thin the line between us is. You're going to go mad here, Sherlock. Mad, mad, MAD."_

_The anxiety was taking hold, and Moriarty's words blasted through Sherlock's head like great billowing jets of fire. _

Sherlock's voice faltered for a moment, his eyes gazing off into some other world that John couldn't see or reach. His pale skin stood out against his dark, curly hair like ivory, like bone. John watched his thin face tremble, watched his chest lift in a deep breath. The cool, pale green eyes seemed faded, dull, as if Sherlock had forgotten how to use them. All too aware of the lump rising in his own throat, John quickly linked his fingers together and rested his hands against his mouth, elbows on his knees, hoping that Sherlock was too engrossed in his memories to notice. Sherlock ran his tongue across his lips, closed his eyes in a long blink, took a sip from his glass of water. His fingers left cloudy imprints along the side of the glass.

_Hours later, the drug was still blazing in his veins - he could almost feel it surging through him, tainting his blood like ink. The ground jumped and shuddered as he struggled to lift himself from the floor, blinking violently, his arms shaking. Everything was spinning, everything was splitting into two... All he wanted to do was run, run as fast and hard as he could and never look back. His whole body was protesting wildly at every movement he made, a fresh pain throbbing on his hip where Moriarty had kicked him for trying to move away too many times. He kneaded his forehead with his fingers, squinted up at the door. He could just see Moriarty stepping out into the corridor, his voice echoing as he called for his companion. His pale blue shirt shimmered silkily in the light of the setting sun. His shirt... It took Sherlock a long few moments to make that essential deduction. Sherlock span around on his knees, suppressing a groan as the whole world tilted. His eyes fell on Moriarty's jacket, thrown carelessly over the desk. It was almost to easy, almost a miracle. He glanced over his shoulder, but the doorway was empty._

_He didn't know where Moriarty had gone, and he didn't care. It was his one chance. Without wasting a second longer, he scrambled across the room on jellied legs and heaved himself up to his feet, pawing through the jacket with numb fingers. He fumbled for the phone, tore it from the inside pocket. He didn't need to pause and construct a plan - he only had one emergency contact. His fingers flew over the mobile, the resulting text garbled and half nonsense. A creak from across the room froze his thumbs, and he looked up sharply, blinking hard as blood trickled past his eye._

_Moriarty stood in the doorway, a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. His face was rigid with a cold, snarling fury. His eyes shone with that insane gleam magnified tenfold, drilling holes through Sherlock's head. For a fraction of a second that yawned like an eternity, consulting criminal and consulting detective stared at one another._

_Then Sherlock hit 'send'__._

_A scream of primal rage filled the room and Moriarty's fists balled in Sherlock's torn shirt, shoving him back against the desk. Sherlock's ribs punished him for the impact, and he heard himself gasping, his vision faltering. Moriarty's contorted face flickered inches away from his own, his eyes wild, his grip in Sherlock's collar so tight that Sherlock could hardly take a breath._

_"You called for help? NO! You were SUPPOSED to do it ALONE! You've RUINED EVERYTHING!"_

_He saw a flash of silver, recognized that expensive letter opener clutched in one of Moriarty's hands. He saw it arc upwards and then thrust down. Hard._

_Sherlock screamed. Moriarty was screaming too, and then he was whispering, fast and hard against Sherlock's cheek. His words stammered through Sherlock's spinning head._

_"I will find you... you and I... my side... the same... find you..."_

_By the time he fought his way back to reality he was alone, slumped against the desk on the floor, reflexively clutching his shoulder, sobs lurching from his mouth. A fiery agony blazed beneath his palm, blood pumping violently against his skin and spreading through his shirt. He couldn't breathe._

_Shit. Shit. SHIT._

_He struggled to keep the pressure on his shoulder, struggled to think straight. He had to keep pressure. Had to stop the bleeding. Oh shit. He forced his gaze upwards, realized with surprise that he was alone. Moriarty was gone. He ran his halting gaze over the room, confirming the fact, unable to understand it. His eyes fell on Fletcher's still body, thrown across the room and now lying by the window face-down. His stomach heaved and he began to claw his shirt off with difficulty, wincing and gasping, unable to contain the tears that sparked from his eyes when he moved his shoulder too suddenly. He finally managed to tear free of the shirt, tore off a few strips with his teeth, began to wrap them around his shoulder as best he could._

_MOVE MOVE MOVE._

_His brain howled at him to go faster, and his fingers failed to grip the strips of cloth he was trying to secure around his arm. He established a pathetic excuse for a knot and then reached for the desk, grabbed it with his good arm, dragged his faltering body upwards. He supported himself on it, squinting around the room, checking for Moriarty one last time. No sign. He remembered the text he had sent and prayed with everything he had that John had received it. If John was alive._

_No. Of course John was alive. He had to be alive._

_Drawing on whatever energy he had left, he hurled himself towards the door. He could feel his own blood dribbling steadily down his chest, his hands slippery with the stuff, the crimson liquid staining his trousers as it ran down his side. His feet tripped over themselves as he neared the door and he threw himself against the doorway to prevent a rapid trip to the ground. The collision sent great waves of agony crackling through his side and he struggled to hold back a scream. The smell of blood was thick in the air, exhaustion shaking in his limbs. He couldn't do it. He couldn't hope to make it out alone, he was going to pass out... He forced in a few deep breaths, tried to get some oxygen into his brain, tried to make himself think. Then he began to move again._

_He made it out of the room, leaning heavily on the wall, half aware of the bloody trail he was leaving behind him on the paint. Darkness flashed before his eyes, assaulted his vision in great, swooping blasts that had him stumbling and swaying. He could just about make out a dank corridor, a few doors dotted around, a set of metal stairs leading down to what he presumed would be the factory's main hall. He reached the top of the stairs, felt the metal banister beneath his hand, gripped it. He took the first step, then the next... and then his legs gave out. His body gave in, his knees buckled, and he sank down onto the stairs with a whimper of agony. He clutched the banister, the metal ice against his burning face. He could no longer see. His body screamed with pulses of pain, rushes of vertigo... He felt his eyes close, felt his grip on the banister come loose. John had never got the text. Nobody knew where he was. He had never thought he would die like this, in the belly of a decaying factory, Moriarty's touch smeared over his skin. Alone. Well, he'd always expected to die alone..._

_The sirens fumbled through the haze in his head some time later. At first, he thought Moriarty had come back and was starting up the machines. But then he recognized the shriek of tyres, the call of horns, the shouts of people echoing through the building. Sucking in as deep a breath as he could manage, he lifted his head from the rungs of the banister, squinted through the dark. The beam of a torch hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs. In that one moment, he could have sworn to take back every jibe he had ever taken at the police force. He could have apologized a thousand times over to the criminal investigation team, even to Anderson. He could have gone down on his knees and kissed Lestrade's shoes. Because, despite everything he had said, everything they had ever jeered at him over, it was Sally Donovan's face that made his whole body tremble with relief and his heart lurch with gratitude. He managed a crooked, bloody smile as she stopped dead at the foot of the stairs, her torch a beacon in the darkness, her eyes wide with unrestrained horror._

_"About time," he said hoarsely._

_And then Lestrade was there, and the paramedics were shoving their way up the stairs, and for the first time in his life Sherlock let go and did exactly what they told him to do without protest. Until Moriarty's words drummed themselves back into his head._

_"I will find you. If it's the last thing I do, Sherlock, you and I... you'll see my side... the two of us are the same... And I - will - find - you."_

The story seemed to drain whatever strength Sherlock had been running on; his eyelids were drooping, his face was white and his hands were shaking like leaves as he rubbed his jaw. John spoke to him, and he nodded, but he doubted Sherlock had actually understood anything he had said. Murmuring mindless words of comfort, he took the glass of water from Sherlock's lax grip and put a hand on his back, gently pushed him down, rearranged the pillow behind his head, dragged the blanket up and tucked it around his shoulders. Sherlock's eyes were already closed by the time John had put the water on the floor.

John's mind was still roving over the story Sherlock had just told him, the injuries suddenly blurred with Moriarty's fingers, the impossible mental trauma, the fact that he'd have to check the stab wound once more in a couple of hours, the note on the table from Mrs. Hudson he still had not read, the mess of medical appliances spread on the floor around him... He dropped into the armchair, heaving a sigh, rubbing his stinging eyes. It was as if he had lived the whole thing alongside Sherlock, gone through every stab of pain, every surge of fear. He felt exhausted just from hearing it... and no wonder Sherlock had wanted to get out of the hospital, no wonder he had wanted to get home and hide as soon as he could.

_"I will find you..."_

The words seemed to hang in the air above them. John felt a shudder run down his spine, looked across at Sherlock. His flat mate was as good as unconscious, burrowed beneath the blanket, his mop of dark hair almost obscuring his face. John could still see those bruises, the split lip.

In his time in Afghanistan, John Watson had seen a lot of brutality. He had seen bodies broken beyond repair, he had seen men in pieces. And yet he had kept his poker face, he had remained the strong, sturdy rock, despite the horrors and the bloodshed and the monstrosity of war. Somehow, all of that paled to insignificance compared with how he felt now. Perhaps it was because Sherlock made up most of his world now - unbelievable, arrogant, sarcastic Sherlock and his frenzied cases and his ridiculous lifestyle. Perhaps it was because Sherlock was supposed to be the strong one here, was supposed to be the one with an answer for everything.

Whatever the reason, John fell asleep with eyes that burned with hot, salty tears and a tight throat, and with Sherlock's hand resting on his arm, John's sleeve caught up between his fingers. Sherlock wouldn't know how to hear it if he tried to say it aloud. So John spent that night with that small contact cemented between them, showing in the best way that he could that everything was going to be alright, that he was going to fix it all, that Moriarty was never going to touch Sherlock again.

And that, no matter how many tantrums, no matter how many arguments, John was not going anywhere. No matter what, he was always, always going to come back.

**Fluffy ending to make up for the angst ;)**

**Hope you all enjoyed it, reviews are very welcome.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, just the plot bunny**

**It's been a while, but it's not quite the end yet... I finally managed to churn this one out with the help of lots of biscuits and tea.. Mycroft is really, really hard to write and I'm not quite happy with this chapter, but I thought I'd kept you all waiting long enough.**

**Thanks for all the reviews, its really nice to know that people are enjoying it and that you want more :)**

**Warning: Contains... stuff from earlier chapters.**

John woke to found himself slouched in his armchair with a crick in his neck, Sherlock's fist still closed loosely in his sleeve. Careful not to disturb him, John glanced down at his watch and saw with a jolt that it was almost midday. He sat up, wincing as his back protested, and then flinched violently at the sight of a dark figure leaning against the desk. He took in a dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and for a second panic blinded him. But then he saw the face, the combed hair, the clear eyes, and he sighed. Of all days to visit, it had to be today. He put a finger to his lips, his eyes narrowing in a warning, and then gently removed Sherlock's limp fingers from his arm. His flatmate stirred a little, his eyes flickering beneath their lids, but then grew still again. John watched him a moment longer, leaning forwards to see his shoulder. From the little he could see, the swelling had gone down a lot. He glanced over his shoulder, cast his eyes skywards.

"How did you even get in here?" he whispered, picking up the first aid kit and making his way towards the kitchen. The other followed, the floorboards creaking quietly.

"Really, John? Living with a genius, I'd have thought you'd find that puzzle rather simple."

"Yes, yes, alright, keep you voice down!"

Mycroft Holmes arched an eyebrow and folded his hands over the handle of his umbrella. He stood against the counter, watching silently while John busied himself with the kettle. Mycroft's presence in a simple London flat was odd, like a racehorse among sheep. In his long dark coat, thin red tie, sleek suit and polished shoes, he looked rather like a great black crow, surveying his surroundings with a piercing, beady eye. John suddenly wasn't sure what to do with himself. He stood in the same clothes he had been wearing for over twenty four hours, felt the old, musty taste of his mouth and the bags beneath his eyes. He didn't want to know what kind of mess he looked. He stood, holding two empty mugs, trying to work out what he was going to do with them. He didn't want to offer Mycroft one, didn't want the other man to stay. If Sherlock woke up and found his older brother was visiting, he would put up that thick, hostile wall, and that would take energy that Sherlock couldn't afford to spare.

"Inspector Lestrade's becoming rather anxious."

John blinked and glanced up, frowning. "Greg?"

"He's been trying to get through to you all day yesterday." Mycroft surveyed him with a cool, collected gaze. "And your landlady explained she was away, hadn't heard from you. I think he's planning to come down here."

John was searching for his mobile. It had been in his jacket the day before; now he couldn't find either the coat or the device anywhere. He didn't want to make too much noise in the other room should he wake Sherlock, and so eventually gave up and withdrew into the kitchen. His eyes fell on the note on the table from Mrs. Hudson, and he picked it up, but again his eyes strayed to his guest rather than the scrawled letters. He tucked the note into his back pocket instead, his skin itching with Mycroft's attention.

"You can tell him there's no need," John said, keeping his voice quiet. "We've just... been busy."

"Yes, I can see." Mycroft's eyes traveled over the room.

John felt oddly embarrassed. It was as if Mycroft had caught his failure, caught all the mistakes he had made in regards to Sherlock's health in the last few days and was now placing every single one in the air between them. John scowled.

"He's not an easy patient, as I'm sure you know," he said coldly.

"I do know," Mycroft replied lightly. "In fact, I'm rather surprised you haven't had to call the hospital."

John wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. He brushed over it, pouring himself a cup of coffee, ignoring the second cup.

"Well, I've finally got him to relax and take the damn medicine. And he's asleep anyway, so I don't think now's a good time to-"

"No, no," Mycroft said, waving his hand absently. "Don't worry, Doctor Watson, I'm not here to upset your patient. Just... dropping by."

It sounded wrong, forced. Perhaps stranger was the fact that Mycroft visiting his little brother for no reason at all was odd in John's eyes - Mycroft always had a motive, always had reasons, cards held to his chest. Appearing now with nothing but poorly veiled concern made the situation awkward. His eyes traced John's movements as the doctor stirred his coffee, allowing the silence to stretch on.

"How long do you think it will be before my dear brother recovers?"

The question was light, calm, unhurried, but there was a shadow of something else lingering behind those words. John sighed.

"A while. I mean, a _long_ while. Knowing Sherlock he'll be trying to dive back in as soon as possible, but I want him home for at least a month. I mean, with his ribs, and with his... well, I don't want him to rush anything."

"I see. And he's doing well?"

"Well enough."

Mycroft walked across the kitchen, stood on the spot where tiles met wood paneling. John sipped his coffee, rubbed sleep from his eyes, his head full of Sherlock, antibiotics and food. After a couple of minutes, Mycroft turned to face him again, drumming his fingers on the hilt of his umbrella.

"He's stubborn. He's lucky he has... Well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you."

John blinked at him, uncertain what Mycroft was driving at. Mycroft's smile faded a little as thoughts chased one another across his face.

"Moriarty," John said suddenly, careful to keep his voice low. "You haven't...?"

"I have the very best working on it," Mycroft replied, a shadow lining his face. "I have some of the greatest agents on the world sniffing around for him, but... Moriarty is elusive."

"You need to find him." John glanced up to Mycroft's questioning gaze. "Mycroft, you have to. Sherlock needs to know - _I _need to know - that he's contained somewhere."

"He can't run forever. We will get to him."

The words meant nothing. All they revealed was that Mycroft and his web of agents were failing to track Moriarty down. John gulped down the last of his coffee, despair clenching his stomach. He wasn't sure he would be able to get a decent night's sleep until Moriarty was caught, let alone Sherlock...

"I want protection."

Mycroft's eyebrows jumped up his forehead. "Protection?"

"Yes." John met his gaze steadily. "I want armed men - _trustworthy _men - stationed undercover in Baker Street. Sherlock told me that Moriarty is likely to come back for him. I won't give that monster another opportunity to... to hurt him."

He had to spit out the sentence, his face flooding with heat at the embarrassment of speaking so passionately in front of Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Man. And yet he found Mycroft nodding at once alongside his words.

"They'll be here within an hour. I'll text you their numbers, should you need them."

A weight seemed to lift off John's shoulders, and he managed to offer Mycroft a smile. "Thank you."

Mycroft inclined his head slightly, and with a refined goodbye made his way out. He paused in the living room, looking over at his younger brother, and for a moment John thought he was going to wake Sherlock up, talk to him. But then Mycroft turned on his heel and disappeared through the door. John heard his footsteps on the stairs.

It was a strange meeting. If John didn't know better, he would say that he had dreamed the whole experience. But then the two Holmes brothers rarely made any sense when dancing around the topic of the relationship each had with the other. Aware that attempting to understand such a thing would inevitably lead to a headache, John stretched out the kinks in his back and then headed down the corridor to Sherlock's room.

The room was clad in darkness and smelled slightly odd - stuffy, heavy, dusty. The desk across the room was crammed full of seemingly random objects, among them a tiny microscope, several petri dishes, an elaborately carved wooden box, assorted vials of different coloured liquids, a collection of papers covered in strange, barely legible words, numbers, equations, a box of chalk, a few lumps of resin, some ink, a hammer, a metal ruler... John couldn't even name half of the stuff. He was careful not to touch any of it, knowing that Sherlock would have a fit if he knew somebody had touched his things. To his left, the wall was taken up with masses and masses of books - some were stacked neatly in a bookcase, the others in piles against the wall, some left open on the floor, some torn pages nailed to the wall. There was a small black chair there, but it was almost obscured with shirts. A massive map of London sprawled over the wall opposite Sherlock's bed, additional details added with post-it notes, blue-tack, and scraps of torn paper or napkin. Sherlock's floor was bare of any carpet or rug - Sherlock did not use this room for comfort, but as a storage unit for past cases or older belongings. The wardrobe beside the window that held his clothes hung open, various costumes and disguises swinging from the doors. His bedside table was likewise stacked with books and objects. Picking his way through the mess, John made his way to the great window across the room and drew the curtains, propped the window open. The air outside was cold and biting, and the light that flooded the room seemed to chase away some of the cobwebs and secrets lingering in its depths. John pulled Sherlock's crumpled sheets straight and folded back one side of the duvet, arranging the pillows carefully and clearing a small space on one of the bedside tables before heading back towards the living room. He looked in on Sherlock - still asleep, brow slightly furrowed - and then made his way into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

He washed quickly, left his hair wet. The hot water pounding on his aching back and cramped muscles was heaven - he felt as if he could have stayed there all day - but unfortunately there was a detective with a high fever and several severe traumatic experiences under his belt in the other room, and John couldn't afford to leave him alone for too long. As he threw on some fresh clothes - the supply of which was rapidly depleting as he, again, put off doing his laundry - he heard the sound of movement in the other room and hastily dragged on a shirt. He reached the living room in time to see Sherlock try and fail to get up from the sofa, a rough groan escaping his tight jaw as he held his broken ribs. Despite the pain, he reached out one hand for the arm of the sofa, ready to try again, his toes curling into the carpet. John stepped forwards hastily.

"Going somewhere?"

Sherlock glanced up sharply. John stole the moment to take a long look at him. His eyes were still bright with fever, his face slightly flushed, the thin film of sweat still on his forehead. His body trembled as he shifted on the sofa and he kept his head turned away from the windows, as if the light was hurting his head. He still looked drained, thin, sick... John instantly regretted allowing him to stay up and talk for so long the night before. Sherlock needed rest, and John had allowed his own curiosity to overcome his common sense.

"I assumed I was permitted to move," Sherlock replied. His voice was dull, dry, his breaths labored. John tactfully pretended not to notice.

"As far as I'm concerned, you're not permitted to do anything without my say so," he said with a smirk. He put his shoulder against his armchair, shoving it back across the room towards the fireplace with a grunt. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock shrugged tiredly. The fact that he didn't spit out a comeback was enough to tell John that he was feeling the strain already. He sat, huddled over his ribs, his eyes slipping out of focus as John heaved his chair back into its original position before returning to the sofa. He crouched down on the balls of his feet and felt Sherlock's forehead; his flatmate pulled away, scowling.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm checking your temperature." John rolled his eyes. "Come on, just come here..."

Sherlock's scowl deepened, but he sat still while John felt his brow, studied his pupils, then pulled his pyjama shirt aside and examined his bandaged shoulder. He was all too aware of the shudders rolling through Sherlock's tormented body and the heat radiating from his skin, but thankfully the infection seemed to have subsided a little. If he monitored it carefully over the next few days, it should heal well. Hopefully Sherlock's stubborn nature hadn't caused any permanent damage. By the time John sat back on his heels, Sherlock's eyes had closed and he was pinching the bridge of his nose with his uninjured hand, his shoulders bunched. John kept one hand on his arm, maintaining contact.

"Can you tell me how you feel?"

"How do you think?" Sherlock mumbled. "Bloody awful."

John couldn't help but smile at his impatience. Because despite the fact that he was being rude and inconsiderate and self-centered... all of that meant that Sherlock, the real Sherlock, was already on his way back. Stubborn as a mule, he was already clawing his way back to the surface. John rose to his feet.

"I know," he said, keeping his voice soft. "I'm afraid it's going to be a long road, but... well, give it time, yeah?"

Sherlock scoffed under his breath, and then winced and pressed the heel of his palm to his head.

"I think you should eat something."

Sherlock's lip curled.

"Please, Sherlock, just a little bit, and then we'll get you back to bed."

Any other day, Sherlock would have flatly refused and ordered John to stop mothering him and leave him alone. But now, John saw his cloudy gaze focus on something on the floor and saw his lips quirk, his eyes narrow. Then, slowly, he nodded. John glanced down, and his stomach flipped over as he saw half of the violin bow lying on the ground near the sofa, horse hair strings splayed across the carpet. Clearing his throat, he headed towards the kitchen.

"What would you like?" he threw over his shoulder, trying to distract his flatmate. "I think Mrs. Hudson left us some soup. I'll heat it up, yeah?"

A heavy sigh was his only response. Aware that this was as communicative as Sherlock was going to get, John went ahead with a pot of Mrs. Hudson's homemade soup he found behind a murky vial of indiscriminate fluid. Having placed it on the hob and lit the gas, he crossed back to the sofa, where Sherlock had his head in his hands.

"Kitchen?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Come on, you can lean on me."

"John..."

John bent down, pulling Sherlock's hands gently away from his face. Sherlock's eyes closed in despair but, reluctantly, slowly, he reached for John's shoulder with his uninjured arm and allowed the other man to lift him gently to his feet. The movement sent a stiffness through Sherlock's body and furrowed his brow with a hiss of pain, but John simply wound an arm around his waist and helped him across the room into the kitchen. Sherlock sank into the chair John directed him to and doubled over at once, his teeth gritted together. John made a dive for the soup, managing to rescue it just in time from frothing over, and poured it into a bowl which he set in front of Sherlock along with a spoon. Sherlock glared at it.

"I fail to see the point in this."

"I could list a few for you, I'm sure I could go on for a while."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. He inched forwards to the edge of his seat, one arm still wrapped around his bruised side, reached for the spoon with trembling fingers. John turned his back, busied himself with making some toast. The juddering clink of the spoon against the bowl made Sherlock's weak grip painfully obvious. John fetched the box of antibiotics. He made some tea, too, placed a cup near Sherlock's elbow before sitting down with his own breakfast. He eyed the bowl, which was barely half-empty. Sherlock took long pauses between each mouthful, as if forcing each one down.

"Stop looking at me."

"Sorry." John buttered his toast. "You'll want to have another couple of those about now."

Sherlock glanced at the antibiotics. "They slow me down. They stop me from thinking."

"You don't need to think at the moment."

"I always need to think, John, don't be ridiculous."

There was a short stretch of silence, in which John ate some toast and Sherlock looked from him to the box and back again, his gaze stony. Then, slowly, he reached for the box and took out two of the pills, swallowed them down, then flicked the box across the table at John, who caught it with a smug grin.

"One week," Sherlock muttered. "I'll take them for one week, and then I'm stopping, I don't care what you say."

"Fine."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking so... Urgh." Sherlock threw his spoon into the bowl, pushed it away. "I can't do this, I can't have any more."

John hesitated, but he sounded genuinely distressed and two thirds of the soup was gone. Nodding, he crammed the last of his toast into his mouth and took their dishes, leaving them in the sink. Sherlock took a sip of tea, but then put the mug down and pushed that away, too.

"You have to eat properly, Sherlock, especially now-"

"Yes, yes, a truly enrapturing lecture, but forgive me if I'm not in the mood."

Sherlock had his head in his hands, his fingers probing at the cut on his temple. John resisted the urge to shoo his hands away, warn him about scratching his stitches. Instead, he glanced towards the living room, at the mess on the floor and the sofa. He had a lot to clean up.

"I want to go back to my room."

"Yeah." John turned back to Sherlock. "Do you want something for the pain? I can't give you anything too strong, you know, the antibiotics and all, but I could find something to take the edge off?"

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure?"

A short, sharp nod, fingers pressed hard against temples. John opened his mouth, but then decided against pushing him. Sherlock was being complacent, and John wasn't about to play with his temper.

"Alright. Come on, then."

And just as he reached out, there was a sudden, violent banging from downstairs. John froze; Sherlock flinched. For a few seconds they both remained motionless. Then John patted Sherlock's uninjured shoulder.

"I'll go, stay here."

Sherlock's eyes drilled into him all the way out of the room. John jogged down the stairs, slowed as he reached the hall. He stood watching the door, remembering the night before when all that terror had only been caused by a drunk staggering across the street, remembering that morning when the drab sight of Mycroft had almost made him jump out of his skin. He was nervous, he was over-tired, and he was being paranoid. And yet still, he found that he couldn't make himself open that door. He took a breath, reached for the door handle, and then jumped back as the banging came again, this time accompanied by a muffled shout. John relaxed, muttered a curse under his breath, and dragged the door open.

Lestrade stood on the step, his mouth a firm, hard line and his hands balled into fists. As soon as John opened the door he leaped forwards, a stream of fury spilling from his mouth.

"Where the _hell _have you been? I've been calling all morning, I texted all last night, what, did you have something better to do? I thought something had happened to the two of you!"

"Sorry, Greg," John sighed, pushing the door to. "My phone's in my jacket, I haven't looked at it since yesterday. Things have been a little rough..."

"A little rough? You do realize that I still haven't got Sherlock's statement, I _still _haven't-"

"Things have been hard, alright? And you can't talk to him right now, he's-"

"I _have _to talk to him now, John, I've already given you more time than I should have!"

"No!" The word came out louder than he had wanted it to, and he shot a fugitive glance towards the top of the stairs. "No, not now," he continued, lowering his voice. "He's finally starting to settle, I can't have you disrupting everything now!"

"Disrupting?" Lestrade screwed his thumbs into his eyes. "John, you know how many liberties I take for the two of you, how much I bend the rules! Now I would not be here now if I had any other option. But I have to talk to Sherlock, I need just a short statement, and then you can have all the time you want."

John considered it, and then kicked the idea away within a fraction of a second. There was just no way. Sherlock was too fragile, too close to the edge. He looked Lestrade in the eye. "I can't let you do that."

"You don't have a choice, John, _I_ don't have a choice!"

"Tough. Greg-"

"John-"

"Problem?"

Both men flinched violently and span around. Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, his legs unsteady, leaning against the wall. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, his face pale, his dressing-gown clumsily pulled closed to hide the bruises, the bandages, the blood. But his back was straight and that dark, steady gaze focused first on John and then on Lestrade. The corner of his mouth twitched, in that familiar way, that way that could have been a smirk or a wince. Lestrade and John, standing frozen at the bottom of the stairs, stared up at him in a stunned silence.

"The head of department's been pushing you for answers about this case, he's ticked off because Donovan told him you'd let me out of hospital early. You're so stressed you've forgotten to shave and you haven't had time to get your morning coffee. It's fine, John can make you some while we talk."

Sherlock's voice was flowing, calm, composed. A million miles away from the man who had sat on the sofa and explained to John every detail of the week that had brought him spiraling towards breaking point. John searched for his eyes, but Sherlock was deliberately looking straight at Lestrade, who seemed to be visibly sagging with relief.

"Thank you," he said, shooting a glare at John that said 'see?'. "Thank you, Sherlock."

He started up the stairs, but John darted past him and reached Sherlock first, his eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing?" he hissed under his breath. "Sherlock, I'm your doctor, and I say you are not ready for this."

Sherlock stared back at him. "Mind if we use my room, Lestrade?"

"No, no, fine."

"Sherlock." John spat the word through gritted teeth, and would have launched into a long and detailed rant had Sherlock not put a hand on his shoulder. Not to stop him, but because his long legs were buckling beneath him. Alarmed, John hastily pulled Sherlock's arm across his shoulders and steered his flatmate towards his bedroom, leaving Lestrade to strip off his coat and take out his wallet, ID and phone in the corridor.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about!" He snapped, taking most of Sherlock's weight as they reached his room. He deposited his flatmate gingerly on the bed, pulled the pillows upright so that he could sit comfortably, pulled the duvet up over his legs. "You can't just... just... force your way through, and expect everything to be okay! You're _not _okay, for god's sake!"

"Stop being so emotional, John, I'll be fine." Sherlock winced as John pulled his shirt aside and examined his shoulder. "Lestrade has a job, has responsibilities."

"Yeah, well, I have a job too."

"You can go back to the clinic any day now, I'll be able to manage-"

"I wasn't talking about the bloody clinic!" John turned on his heel. He stopped Lestrade at the door. "Ten minutes. _Ten. _Any longer and I'm sedating him."

Lestrade nodded, a tape recorder ready in his hand. John strode back into the living room, and then stopped dead at the sight of the mess. He still hadn't cleaned up from the night before. Sighing heavily, he put the kettle on once more and then began picking up the bits and pieces piled around the sofa. He fetched a carrier bag for the fragments that remained of the violin, went down on his knees to scoop them up. He threw piece after piece into the bag, each landing with a muffled crackle of plastic. He succeeded in giving himself a splinter and sat back on his heels, mumbling abuse, cradling his finger. Why did Sherlock always, always have to make everything so difficult? Why was it always John who found himself panicking, found himself taking on all the stress and the anger and the grief, while Sherlock simply breezed on through? He launched forwards, grabbing for the snapped bow of the violin. Sometimes, John wanted nothing more than to walk out of the door and never come back. Sometimes he wanted to scream and shake Sherlock until the detective just admitted that he could feel, that he wasn't just a porcelain shell... John realized that his own hands were shaking violently, that his breath was catching in his throat, that his eyes were wet. Swallowing hard, shaken by how fast it had come on, John groped his way towards his armchair and sank into it, wiping furiously at his eyes, forcing himself to take a couple of deep breaths.

He hadn't felt like this since he had been kneeling in a cage in Baskerville, his lungs so tight that he couldn't even think, his ears ringing with the snarls of a massive hallucinated hound. He hadn't felt so terrified, pushed to his limits... He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shuddering as he struggled to calm down, jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth ached. He could see the bridge of the violin lying between his feet on the ground, rubbed and worn from the strings. He stared at it dully, his eyes burning. How many more times was he going to see Sherlock run himself into the ground? How long was it going to take the stupid, _stupid _idiot to understand that he was _human, _he was breakable...

If it hadn't been so quiet, and if he hadn't let his mind run into emptiness, he might not have heard the soft _Brrrrrr _of a vibrating phone across the room. He raised his head, and then stood slowly and made his way over to the sofa. On the floor beside it was his jacket - he must have tossed it down there the night before. He felt in the pocket and finally drew out his mobile, the screen flashing with twelve missed calls, numerous texts; most from Lestrade, some from Mrs. Hudson, a couple even from Donovan...

_John, pick up your phone. I need to talk to you and Sherlock. - GL_

_Greg says you two are ignoring his calls - tell the freak to pick up. - SD_

_For god's sake, John, will you just text me at least? It's about his statement. - GL_

_Hello boys, I looked for you earlier but the door was shut and there was no answer when I knocked. I've had news of a terrible dilemma with my sister in Manchester, I've no choice but to go and stay with her and the children for a few days. Awful business, but unavoidable. I do hope you'll be alright without me for a little bit, I've left some shepard's pie and some lasagna in my fridge for you to heat up. Look after yourselves, tell Sherlock to get well soon. I will call when I can. - Ms. H_

_John! - GL_

He scrolled to the most recent, the others a mere blur before his eyes.

_Done. You can call them Smith, Jones and Williams. They're stationed around your house now, ready for your orders. Do give my brother my regards. - MH_

He scanned the three mobile numbers that followed, and instantly felt a thick surge of relief, read the text through twice more. Just like that, he could allow himself to feel hopeful, he could allow himself to believe that they could pull through all of this somehow. He had back up. He wasn't alone. He sent a brief word of mental thanks to Mycroft Holmes, who for all his strange habits and childish feuds, was extremely good at coming through on his word. Pulling himself together, he squared his shoulders and returned to his task of cleaning up the living room, his pace brisker, his hands more deft.

He left the bag filled with what remained of the violin on the kitchen table, not too sure what to do with it. He couldn't throw it out, and yet the sight of it there would surely only upset Sherlock. But to toss it away, to let it fall into a rubbish truck filled with rotting food and waste, seemed almost disrespectful. He could hardly give it a funeral, but ridiculous as it sounded, that collection of wood and strings was a part of Sherlock. It was an echo of his elegance, his lean frame, his absent-minded precision. And John couldn't bring himself to let it go. So he left the pieces folded neatly in their bag on the table, and he made the coffee.

It wasn't until he was pouring milk into Lestrade's cup and stirring it in with a spoon salvaged from the growing pile of dirty plates and cutlery in the sink that he began to think. And then he began to wonder. And then his heart began to beat fast and hard, and his fingers faltered, and he felt his teeth fastening on his lip. Mrs. Hudson had knocked on the door, and then left in a hurry. She had never entered their flat. He remembered that morning, the day she had gone, remembered staring at the pills and the cup of tea for Sherlock on the table, deliberating whether to go through with it, and seeing only that cup and those pills on the table. Nothing else. And yet when he had got back, much later that evening, something else had been there. And only Sherlock had been in the flat, roving around it in his blind, destructive rage.

But there would be no need for Sherlock to write a note to himself, surely...

John felt his hand slipping into his back pocket, drawing out the small, folded, crisp square of paper. He didn't want to look. He so, so wanted to just leave it there, pretended that he had never put that jigsaw together, forced the rules of reality to bend until it hadn't happened... But his fingers pulled the note open again, his shaking fingers, and his eyes focused at last on the words he had been too busy to see for so very long...

_A ring, a ring of roses, pocket full of posies, BANG BANG BANG BANG we all fall down..._

_Is he missing me yet?_

It was signed with flourish, with triumph, a coiled, swirling, single letter that sent thrills of electric terror down John's spine. He span around at once, his eyes roving across the kitchen, over the living room... he didn't know what he was expecting to see. Shadows coming to life? Assassins dropping down from the ceiling? He shoved his way out into the corridor on legs that wobbled like jelly, circled his own room, darted downstairs, strode through Mrs. Hudson's flat, checked the back door, checked the front door... At the front door he stopped, his chest heaving, his hands flicking across his phone. Within seconds he had ordered the three bodyguards to conduct a sweep of the area, check for anyone suspicious, anything at all... He climbed the stairs again, stood in the corridor, listening to the low rumble of voices in Sherlock's room. He stood there, numb, his blood roaring in his ears, the corridor swimming before his gaze.

He had been in their flat. He had come into their flat.

He had been there _when Sherlock was alone._

John had to force himself to remember how to breathe. He swayed his way back into the kitchen, braced himself against the counter.

"Oh god, oh god... oh _jesus..."_

He had to bite his lip to stop the words from spilling out. Moriarty's web reached everywhere. He stared down at the note crumpled to a ball in his hand, his knuckles white. Just visible between his coiled fingers was that letter, that one letter marked in black ink. Funny how much power a single letter now had, how much meaning, how much fear. Funny that all John could do was stare at it, sitting there on the page, gloating, grinning, so vivid that he could almost see the face of its writer in front of him.

_M_

_x x x_

**Reviews are very welcome, hope you enjoyed it.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, just the plot bunny**

**I'm thinking perhaps three or four more chapters are left to go before I close this fic. It's so much fun to write, but I now have a nice, neat little plot for it, which I think is a better tactic than just writing randomly, which is all I've been doing so far...**

**Apologies for the delay on this chapter, I rewrote it a couple of times. I'm still not quite happy with it, it feels too much like a filler, but I didn't want to leave you lot hanging any longer. Hopefully you'll enjoy it.**

**Thank you very much for the reviews, it's lovely to know you're all enjoying the ride.**

**WARNING: contains bad language, violence and the like...**

"I'm going out."

John flinched awake at the words, sending his cup of tea tumbling to the floor with an earsplitting crash that had him jumping out of his skin. He swore, his eyes barely functional as he dropped out of his armchair and fumbled blearily with the shards of china, barring helplessly at the tea that was now soaking into the rug.

"For god's sake..."

After a few long moments he realized his attempts were fruitless and sat back on his heels, staring at the large, dark stain, trying to remember just what it was that he was supposed to be doing. Then, as his mind caught up with the events around him, he lifted his head to squint at the tall, dark figure now standing in the doorway of the living room.

Sherlock gazed back at him, his back straight, on hand deep in his pocket where it was presumably wrapped around his mobile phone. He was wearing a rich, dark blue shirt, black pressed trousers and polished shoes. His hair had been tidied - not brushed, because Sherlock was only vain when it came to intellect - and parted to the left in order to hide what remained of the gash on his temple. It, like the rest of his face, had now faded well, but against Sherlock's marble skin even the slightest bruise stood out a mile. John's rather violent reaction to his entrance didn't seem to have surprised the detective; instead, Sherlock simply met John's foggy stare with calm determination.

"You're what?"

Sherlock moved into the room and crossed to the corner, where he took down his coat. He took a moment before pulling it on, carefully guiding through one arm and then the other. He winced as he tugged it straight, brushed his fingertips over his injured shoulder.

"To the police station," he said. "I need to speak to Lestrade."

"The phone...?"

"I prefer to text. I don't want to do this over text."

John put his head in his hands. He tried to think of words to say, and came up with nothing. Because he should have seen this coming.

Sherlock had so far been surprisingly complacent. When John had told him to sleep, he had gone to bed. When John had told him to eat, he had quietly accepted whatever food put in front of him. When John had started wielding the first aid kit and barking about checking the infection and changing bandages, Sherlock had sat still and allowed John to examine him. He had been honest when John demanded how much pain he was in, he had taken the antibiotics regularly and calmly without protest and he had not complained. Which made the boredom building up behind those clear, pale eyes all the more dangerous.

John couldn't allow him to do too much, for fear of exhausting him. As a result, Sherlock was confined to the flat and was only permitted to get up to take a bath, eat at the table, or sit in front of the television for a few hours. The first day this had happened, Sherlock had discovered the plastic carrier bag filled with pieces of his violin stashed away on the desk, and had spent the rest of the evening stony faced and completely silent. Since then, John had kept the bag hidden in the top drawer of his bedside table. He hadn't known how to explain to Sherlock why he had kept the pieces, or what Sherlock would want to do with them. So they stayed in the drawer, hidden and silent. Sherlock had returned to his usual collected demeanor by the next day, but John couldn't help but notice the way his eyes sometimes strayed around the living room, perhaps searching for the carrier bag, perhaps for the instrument the contents had once made up.

Of course, a mind like Sherlock's was impossible to restrain; John could order his body to rest, but he couldn't order Sherlock's overactive brain to do anything. When those long fingers began to twitch with frustration, John had been forced to relax some of his new regulations - he managed to get hold of some low-level case files from Lestrade and let Sherlock leaf through them, scrawling his deductions down on a notepad, his flowing voice vibrating through the flat as his thoughts rolled off his tongue. Slouched in his bed, surrounded by pens, phones, books and papers, Sherlock could be fleetingly entertained. But the days were long, and by the time a week had passed Sherlock was climbing the walls and John... John was a nervous wreck. He looked sicker than Sherlock, and he knew it.

Because while Sherlock was playing the good patient, while he was agreeing to sit quiet and play with his toys, John was watching every shadow on the wall, flinching at every creak of the house. As a soldier, John had been trained to deal with severe stress, dangerous conditions and armed enemies. But somehow, nothing he had ever been taught in the army, nothing he had been taught in the depths of Afghanistan, nothing at all he had ever encountered before had equipped him to know how to act with the knowledge that Jim Moriarty could be watching his every move.

Shaking and shuddering in the kitchen, that godforsaken note clutched in his fist, there had been only one thing he could do. He had texted Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft responded quickly and efficiently, and for some reason that helped to calm John's nerves a little. A little, not completely. Mycroft might be the British Government itself, but even he seemed to be unable to track down Moriarty. John retreated to the bathroom and splashed icy water over his face, took a long few minutes remembering how to breathe. He stared at himself in the mirror, at his own white skin and the dark circles around his eyes, his disheveled hair and the lines on his forehead. He felt old. He washed his face again, more carefully this time, as if trying to wipe away the traces of fatigue and fear that had embedded themselves in his face. Then he emerged, feeling a little more collected, a little more steady. He had to be steady. Sherlock needed him; no matter how much of a front he put on for the others, John was his rock. He couldn't afford to crumble now, because if he dared to, Sherlock would come crumbling down with him.

He waited for Lestrade to finish instead of joining the two of them in Sherlock's room. When the Detective Inspector finally did appear it was with a heavy sigh and a role of his eyes. He tucked his tape recorder into his pocket, reached for his jacket. He tossed John an exasperated look as he pulled it on.

"Well, it's something. He was so _vague. _But I suppose - well, it's to be expected, isn't it?"

John resisted the urge to shake the inspector, to scream that Sherlock had a damn right to be vague, that no matter how hard he tried not to he did indeed possess emotions, he was not invincible. But he didn't. Instead, he grabbed Lestrade's arm as the Inspector made to leave, pulled him through into the living room. His hands still shook a little as he spread out the note and held it for Lestrade to see. He had already taken several photos and sent them to Mycroft, who had promised that he had people examining it at once and was sending a detective over to look at it.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked in a strangely high-pitched voice, his eyes glittering with something akin to panic as he read and re-read the note. "Sherlock's right in the other room, he could-"

"No, no." John shook his head curtly. "As far as he's concerned, this never happened. Sherlock needs to rest, and he can't do that with this... this _fear _hanging over him. We secure the house, we keep that maniac out, and we let him recover."

Lestrade took a long hesitation before replying, his eyes flicking between the note and John's tight, hard face before he nodded slowly. "You're his doctor," he muttered. "But John, if it could help us stop Moriarty... well, afterwards he can _really_ rest, can't he?"

They were words that would ring in John's head for days after Lestrade left. John walked him to the door, his heart sinking as he waved goodbye. Without the sounds of Mrs. Hudson pottering about, or the bangs and clatters of Sherlock's various experiments, the flat was oddly silent. No, worse than silent - deathly still. The air seemed frozen, the very walls holding their breath, simply waiting... The three faceless agents Mycroft had stationed in Baker Street were the only things that stood between Sherlock and Moriarty. It felt like hiding from bullets with a paper shield.

Mycroft worked fast, organised everything at lightning speed. The agents were notified, cameras and security measures were set up all around 221b and a select team was at the ready should anything even remotely out of the ordinary occur. Layer after layer of protection was being built up, and yet still John felt exposed. At Mycroft's suggestion, he had spoken with Mrs. Hudson on the phone and convinced her to remain with her sister in Manchester until it was safer to return home. Now, John almost wished she was here. Somebody to ease the horrible tension. The longer nothing happened, the more terrified he felt. Lestrade made regular visits, but they were usually late at night after John had sent Sherlock to bed like a strict parent, and were conducted in hushed voices. Nothing ever came of them - no news on Moriarty, nothing to either inspire hope or inject fear, nothing at all. Every morning and every evening John would call each of Mycroft's agents to hear the same responses: 'No, Sir, nothing. Yes, Sir, we'll double check. Of course Sir, at once, if anything at all happens'. They dropped into an awful, endless, repetitive cycle. Waiting.

John no longer knew how to sleep at night. If he was lucky he snatched a couple of hours on the sofa or in the armchair in Sherlock's room. If he was unlucky, he would find himself first staring with wide eyes into the darkness of night pressing in around him, then jolting with panic at every minuscule sound he heard before finally being driven out into the cold hallway. He would spend the rest of the night sitting on the floor outside Sherlock's room, leaning against the wall, his head buried in his arms, torn between fury at himself for letting his fear drive him into the corridor and sheer despair. He wasn't sure why he thought sitting beside Sherlock's closed door would do any kind of good - if Moriarty did storm into their flat with armed gunmen, one sleep deprived ex-soldier sore from sitting on the ground in the hallway certainly wasn't going to slow him down. Not even a little. And yet still John stayed until his muscles ached and his head felt like jelly.

And of course Sherlock noticed. He would watch John as he made dinner with hands that shook with sleep deprivation; he would arch his eyebrows questioningly as John almost nodded off for the third time at five thirty in front of the television. Sometimes he would hint, others he would just watch silently. John could almost hear the cogs turning in his head, but whatever conclusions he drew, Sherlock never asked John outright what was going on. He had asked that once, and only once - the day John found the note. Having watched Lestrade leave, John had made Sherlock some tea and made his way to his room, trying to smooth out the lines of anxiety digging themselves into his forehead.

At the time, Sherlock didn't seem to be in any kind of state to analyse his appearance anyway. He was slouched in bed, the duvet pulled up and cocooned around him, his eyes misty with weariness. He didn't appear to notice John at first, clearly lost in his own private thoughts. John didn't need his flatmate's powers of deduction to know what he was thinking about. He sat down on the edge of Sherlock's bed, wrapped his long hands around the mug of tea. The contact stirred Sherlock out of his meditative state and he blinked, eyes flashing briefly to John and then down to the mug.

"How are you feeling?"

"Bored."

John let out a bark of laughter, despite himself. Sherlock sipped at the tea, wriggled further into his nest of duvets and pillows, winced. His arms, protruding from the white mass like slender twigs suddenly looked alarmingly skinny, almost anorexic. John watched the tendons on the back of his hands shift and stretch, his head close to bursting with thoughts of how much there would be to do without Mrs. Hudson around to back him up, thoughts of shopping and cooking and the danger of leaving Sherlock alone... A few minutes passed in silence before Sherlock spoke.

"You look worse than me."

John blinked, finding his flatmate's pale eyes fixed on his own, suddenly alert and unwavering. His dark hair tumbled wildly in every direction; the sunlight streaming through the open window sent dark, sharp shadows across his angular face; goosebumps were rising on his arms. His gaze searched John, made him distinctly aware of the note from Moriarty in his back pocket. The little piece of paper burned there, daring John to tell him, to explain...

"I'm tired," John said, rising and crossing to the window to shut it, pulled the curtain half-closed. "And so are you. I think it's about time we both got some decent sleep - and this time in beds."

Sherlock's eyes followed him back across the room, but if he saw through John's evasion, he said nothing. He drank a little more tea, stifled a yawn. John struggled not to double-take; he couldn't remember the last time he had seen Sherlock yawn. It was surreal, almost funny to see. He waited until Sherlock held out the mug, then positioned it within reach on the bedside table and helped Sherlock to lie down, pushing the pillows into position around him. Sherlock rolled his eyes a little, as if in protest of John's mother hen act, but for once kept his sharp comments behind his teeth as John fussed over him.

"I didn't tell Lestrade everything," he said quietly as John heaved the duvet over his shoulders. "Stupid, careless, I know. But for some reason I... I left some parts out."

John tried to catch his eye, but Sherlock was pointedly fixing his gaze on the duvet instead, his long fingers drawing small, gliding circles in the sheets. It seemed that Sherlock was waiting for a judgement of some kind, testing the water, perhaps trying to gauge whether the action had only been a side effect of his current state. Almost without John noticing, Sherlock was attempting to slide back into that clinical, scientific mind of his, effectively severing the need for comfort, for human contact. John watched Sherlock watch the blanket, feeling slightly stung. On top of everything else, he couldn't handle Sherlock trying to push him away at this moment.

He shook his head. "I think you can be forgiven for that, Sherlock. If you really want, we can talk about it with him again when you feel a little more like yourself."

"I am myself."

"Yeah, well, still."

There was a short pause as John quickly laid a hand against Sherlock's forehead, then straightened up. His temperature was still high, but it had improved dramatically. As long as Sherlock kept up with the antibiotics, as long as there were no complications... if, if, if... John caught his lip between his teeth, his mind mulling over everything too fast for him to draw any kind of conclusion. There were just too many 'if's. Too many 'maybe's. Now that Moriarty had stalked back onto the scene, everything had been thrown into a tense, uncertain balance.

"Not good?"

John came back to earth with a thud, realizing that Sherlock had opened one eye and was watching him. "What?"

"You're worried. Obviously."

Silently cursing his foolishness at thinking in front of Sherlock - a man who was famous for practically reading minds - John forced a smile. "No, no, just thinking. Get some rest, I'll be back in a couple of hours. I'm right in the other room if..." He let his words trail off as Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Alright, alright, well I'll be right there anyway."

He made for the door. As his hand came into contact with the brass knob, Sherlock's voice broke the silence once more.

"John."

John stopped. He didn't turn around. He just stopped. He could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him, boring through him, could feel his ears turning red as he struggled to maintain the easy, relaxed expression that said 'everything's okay'. He knew he was failing.

"Is there anything you want to say, John?"

_Yes. Moriarty has been wandering around this very flat, and I have no doubt at all that he is going to come back for you. And I don't think there's anything I can do to stop him._

"No. No, nothing. Why?"

He felt as if someone else was stuttering those stupid, pathetic, bumbling words. He barely even felt his own lips move. He remained still, unsure whether he should turn around and face Sherlock's stare, or whether he should just leave before it got any worse. But then Sherlock grunted under his breath, apparently satisfied, and there was a rustle as he pulled the duvet close. John risked a glance at him, found that his flatmate's face was buried in the sea of sheets. He had been dismissed. Without wasting another second, John dragged the door open and dived into the hallway, letting out a heavy sigh, completely aware that he had just deceived Sherlock Holmes and unable to fathom whether he should be elated or disgusted at his success.

The bad taste of his lies remained in his mouth for the rest of that gruesomely uneventful week, swelling every time Sherlock complied with his requests. And now, slumped on the floor with tea soaking into his jeans and stubble on his unshaven, grey face, John felt like he had lost any kind of authority to tell Sherlock what to do.

He reached for his armchair and heaved himself to his feet, wondering how much time had passed since he made Sherlock breakfast. The five minute break he had taken afterwards had clearly fallen apart and stretched into a brief dip into unconsciousness. His back protested as he straightened - last night was one of the many nights he had recently spent outside Sherlock's room on the floor - and he groaned aloud. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him and hurriedly tried to keep his mind focused on their conversation. Words slipped away from him like grains of sand.

"You can't go out," he said at last, as Sherlock reached for his scarf.

"I've called a taxi, it's downstairs now. Lestrade will be waiting at the door of the station to meet me. The taxi driver has agreed to wait until I finish my work. I'll be back within a couple of hours. I conclude that I most certainly can."

The statements were pure fact, listed in a slightly bored and monotonous voice, topped off with a slight cock of the head that quite clearly said 'Go on, find a problem'. John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to force his brain to work.

"Why?" he managed.

A smirk twitched at Sherlock's lips, and John almost kicked himself for even bothering to ask. Moriarty, of course. Sherlock was well aware that they had made little to no progress in the case, and it wasn't like Sherlock to simply ignore a nice, juicy unsolved crime. John ran through some protests in his head, doubted that any would do any good whatsoever, and then gave in. He reached for his coat, slung over the back of his armchair.

"Fine. Fine, I suppose... well, if we really _are _back within two hours-"

"Oh, no, John, you're not coming."

John froze, coat half on. He blinked at Sherlock, wondering if he had misheard. "Not... What are you talking about? Of course I'm coming."

"When was the last time you saw yourself, John?" Sherlock's voice was soft, lightly probing.

"What? I don't-"

"I'm going to make this very easy for you," Sherlock said smoothly. His hand moved down to tug John's jacket off and throw it back down on the armchair. "While your concern for my well-being is extremely flattering and your relentless attention is admirable, it is by no means healthy. Now, I am going to go to the police station and speak with Lestrade about this case. Meanwhile, you are going to get some sleep."

John didn't know what was more shocking - the fact that Sherlock was showing actual concern for another human beings 'health' or the fact that he was saying it all in such a controlled, relaxed manner. And then he noticed the way that Sherlock was looking at him - cautious, measuring - and realized that his flatmate was using a tone of voice he saved for clients who were in shock or needed a nudge during questioning. He was treating John with care. He was treating him as if he had turned to glass. John swallowed hard, suddenly recognizing just how much his bones ached, how much his head hurt, how willing he was to just fall back into the armchair and never get up... He scrubbed a hand across his forehead. He needed sleep. And maybe if Sherlock was out of the house and safe with Lestrade, maybe John could actually manage to close his eyes for longer than half an hour. He met Sherlock's steady gaze.

"Two hours," he said, stabbing a finger at him. "Two. No more. And if you... I don't know, if you pull any stitches, I'll..."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll be sent straight home and sent to bed without dinner. I understand."

He said it with a completely straight face, so serious that the absurdity of his words didn't come together within John's head until Sherlock had stepped past him and was making for the door. John huffed out a dry laugh, shaking his head, following Sherlock to the top of the stairs.

"Just... take it easy, will you?" he called, leaning against the wall as Sherlock reached the front door. "No showing off."

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow. "Get some rest, John."

The door shut behind him, leaving John alone in the large, silent flat. He reached for his mobile, called agent 'Smith' to alert him to Sherlock's movements. 'Smith' had already noticed and was tailing Sherlock to the police station at that very moment. John returned the phone to his pocket, stood watching the door for a moment longer. He felt so strange allowing Sherlock out of his sight. It seemed wrong. Without his presence hovering a couple of rooms away, just around the corner, John felt oddly useless. His single purpose - look after Sherlock - had come to an abrupt stand still.

He returned to the living room, went down on his knees, scooped up the shards of china on the rug. His movements were slow, sluggish. For the first time in days he felt a desperate, relentless urge to go into his room, lie down on his bed, and be numb to the word for hours. He brushed a hand across his eyes, suppressing a yawn, rose to his feet with the pieces cupped in his hands. As he reached the bin in the kitchen his phone vibrated loudly, and he wiped his hands off before retrieving it.

_Urgent discovery has been made. May I enter your flat? - W_

He blinked at the 'W' for a while before eventually understanding it to be 'Williams', one of Mycrofts three agents. His heart leaped in fear and his stomach sank in dejection. The one moment, the one tiny moment he had finally felt like getting some actual rest, and it had been snatched away from him within seconds. He kneaded his eyes with his thumbs, then typed a short response and shuffled back into the living room. He glanced in the mirror as he went, winced at the large bags beneath his eyes, the bloodless tint of his skin. Sherlock was right - he looked awful. He crossed to the window, glanced out at the street below, but he didn't even get a chance to see Williams arrive.

The door downstairs opened and closed, and by the time John turned from the window Williams was appearing in the doorway. She was dressed in an unremarkable black jacket and skinny jeans, a large rucksack on her back. Her face was stern, hair pulled back into a tight pony tail. John could easily see her snapping someone's neck with a karate kick and tried not to shiver at the thought.

"What urgent discovery?" he asked, crossing the room to meet her. "You've located Moriarty?"

"I'm afraid not, Sir." Her voice was clipped. "I was told Mr. Holmes had left the flat. How long will he be away?"

"Two hours, roughly." John frowned at her, trying to read just how urgent this matter was. "Why does that matter? You could have called me. Or are we going to see Mycroft?"

"No, Sir, we are not."

She took a small mobile from her pocket, flicked her fingers across the keypad. John waited, his frown deepening, his bed still calling him. He imagined sinking under the covers and closing his eyes, and all at once whatever patience he had left snapped. Whatever news Williams had, she was taking her damn time in telling him, which meant that it couldn't possibly be so important that a text wouldn't have sufficed. He folded his arms, ready to raise his voice, ready to step into his military persona, when she lowered her phone and met his glare.

"We'll be ready in just a moment."

"We? Listen, I have... I am... Look, if there's something I need to know, will you please just tell me now and skip the mystery?"

"I'm very sorry, Sir, any second now-"

The front door downstairs opened with a creak and closed with a dull thud. John glanced towards it, scowled at Williams's expressionless face.

"For god's sake, who else is coming? Don't tell me there's going to be some kind of..."

His voice trailed off as he took a step towards the door, and behind him a soft click broke the heavy air. He turned and then lifted his hands, his eyebrows jerking upwards, his heart jolting in his chest. He looked from Williams to the small handgun pointing at his head and back again. Hundreds of questions roared through his head in a whirlwind, followed by one dead certain answer. John's legs felt numb. Strange, he had thought that when the moment came he would feel more scared. And yet now, all he could feel was a thick, suffocating sense of despair. A bug pinned to a cork board. He heard the stairs creak, heard footsteps pad gently into the living room. He imagined that he could hear the air moving silkily in and out of those lungs, see that pale hand tugging the tie straight... He didn't want to turn around. God, he didn't want to. And yet still, he felt his neck muscles pulling, he felt himself twitching towards the doorway.

When William's gun came down with a hard, resounding _crack _on the back of his head, he was almost grateful. Almost happy that he hadn't had time to take in that laughing grin, those wild black eyes before blackness closed over him. And yet as he fell into nothingness, he could have sworn he heard lilting, smirking words drum into his ears.

"Honey, I'm hooooooome..."

**Sorry again about the delay with this chapter. Hope you enjoyed it.**

**Reviews are very welcome.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did I would never leave my bedroom.**

**There seems to be some confusion over when this story ends... I don't know if I'm unknowingly hinting that each chapter is the end, but I do not mean to imply so at all :D Basically, when the story is over, I will put 'The End' at the bottom of the chapter. Until then, we're still going strong ;)**

**Apologies for the wait, I've had lots of coursework and the like to do. Hopefully most of you can relate to that...**

**Warning: Contains whumpy stuff - drug abuse, violence, bad language, etc.**

"You know, Mr. John Watson? I don't like you. I don't like you _at - all."_

John cracked his eyes open, colours and shapes wavering furiously before his gaze. His whole body felt leaden, hung with iron weights, too heavy to even consider moving. He tried lifting his head and was rewarded with a flash of agony. He heard himself groan, saw a shadow move across his vision. The floor seemed to be steadily tilting, rocking, threatening to send him falling straight into space. He closed his hands over the surface beneath them - soft, thready - in an attempt to ground himself, tried to widen his eyes. He felt sick.

"Know why? Because you're so, _sooo _boring. You're so _normal._ You think you're special, because he likes your flattery, he likes your attention. But you're not. You're a mosquito, leeching off his success. You're so... I mean, just LOOK!"

He flinched at that last word, not because he was scared, but because it was bellowed into his ear. The world seemed to explode, and then cram back together into a tight ball of pain. He sucked in a breath, which felt like the hardest thing he had ever done and appeared to take around ten minutes to complete. He tried to open his eyes once more, but they had clamped shut. His jaw was clenched so tight that his teeth hurt; no matter how hard he tried, he simply could not relax it. The hot, oily prickle of sweat on his forehead prickled insistently.

He swallowed hard, took another breath, squinted into the haze before him. He realized his head had dropped onto his chest. He knew he had to figure out what was happening, he had to come back to earth, because something horrible was about to happen to him. But his brain was so slow, and his blood was roaring in his ears, and he could feel unconsciousness tugging at him with insistent, skeletal fingers...

_That's an order, Solider! Get on with it, for god's sake!_

The words rang through his head, as clear and loud as if they had been spoken for real. All at once he was back in Afghanistan, his first day, on his knees in the dirt and scrabbling to pick up his pack. He was holding up his whole team, his nerves getting the better of him, the heat of the sun beating down on the back of his neck as he turned his face away from their exasperated glances. In just a few minutes a bomb was going to explode, and he would be binding the stump that had once been a leg belonging to a man next to him. John dug his fingers into the material below him and let a shuddering grunt scuttle through his clenched teeth. He forced his eyelashes apart, hauled his head up, felt his body shaking with the exertion of moving. He found himself face to face with a man with black combed hair, wide staring eyes and a crazed grin. A red tongue slid out and ran over those thin lips, as if tasting the air, snake-like.

"Just look at you... You're not special. You're pathetic. You're NOTHING. He could do _so - much - bet - ter."_

"Nmmhhtaay."

John had tried to speak his name, but somewhere between this throat and his lips the word had fallen apart. Moriarty's smirk grew wide and he reached out to put a hand against John's face, pushing his head backwards. John caught his breath, tried to lift his arm, but he could barely even shift. He was on his armchair, he realized. Not restrained, not tied up, simply slumped in it like a corpse. Moriarty was gazing dreamily into his eyes, his lips curving upwards. His crisp white shirt glared stark against his dark navy suit; his bright scarlet tie was red as blood against them. A perfectly folded handkerchief sat neatly in his breast pocket.

"You feel it? You feel it sliding through your veins? I made this, I had this prepared specially for him. It's a nice little cocktail."

Whatever Moriarty was talking about, it was all flying straight over John's head. He wanted to shake off that disgusting contact with his face, but all he could manage was a short twitch. Even that sent the whole world spinning and brought a heavy wave of nausea crashing down on him. By the time John had fought himself back under control, Moriarty had let him go and risen to his feet. He was wandering around the room, inspecting some of the objects lying about it, reading some of the papers. Even his eyes on the flat seemed to leave stains. He crossed to the mantelpiece, cocked his head, and then reached for the skull. His fingers brushed its smooth dome, and John's heart jerked in his chest.

"Mmnh... Hey!"

He finally managed to complete a word, slurred and gruff as it was. Moriarty turned his head to look at him, the corner of his mouth twitching higher as he stroked the skull.

"What? Hit a nerve?"

"Tha... s'Sher... ok's."

Moriarty let out a high-pitched giggle. "Mmh-hhm, thought so. He was so much faster. He mastered it in minutes, and I gave him a double dose."

Large, dark dots were throbbing in John's vision. His skin was crawling around his bones, rippling, stinging. He turned his eyes away from Moriarty, trying his best to return to reality, and noticed Agent Williams sitting on the sofa. Her gun was out, held loosely in one hand. Her eyes were fixed on John. So that was why there were no chains, no ropes. Moriarty had his own guard dog waiting for his command. The feeling of sickness and pain surged back once more and for a few seconds the black dots won. John's head surged with vertigo.

"Hello? Hell-llooo? DOG!"

Something hard collided with his face. John cried out in pain, almost fell from the chair as it came in again. His hand finally obeyed his orders and leaped up, batting helplessly at Moriarty's fist.

"Don't you ignore me, he used to do that, he used to ignore me, and I'd take it, but not from you. Not a _pet _like you."

Moriarty's breath beat hot against John's face. He tried to wriggle away, but as soon as he employed the use of his legs they caved in like rubber. He could taste blood, feel it on his upper lip. He brushed at his face with a shaking hand, then slowly felt the back of his head. Blood, sticky and half congealed, matting in his hair. After a long few moments of confusion he realized what that meant, and the ugly word 'concussion' jumped into his head. He squinted against the pain, saw Moriarty wiping at a spot of blood on his cuff, lip curled.

"W-Why?" John managed, the words grinding out between his clenched teeth. He couldn't relax his jaw. "Why're you..."

"We must have _some_ secrets," Moriarty replied loftily, his gaze wandering across the walls. "This is between Sherlock and I, it barely concerns you... you're just the pound of flesh..."

A soft ringing suddenly filled the room. John recognized the sound of his own phone before he saw it in Moriarty's hand. He felt his stomach lurch in panic as Moriarty lifted the device, then grinned and put it to his ear.

"You know, I was wondering why it was taking so long. Didn't you get my texts?"

Moriarty's voice had turned low and sweet as honey, and even in his drugged state John could tell exactly who the consulting criminal was currently cooing down the phone to._ Sherlock. No._ He struggled to rise again but without warning pain exploded behind his eyes and he sank downwards, close to retching, unable to hold back a moan. He heard the floorboards creak as Moriarty moved towards him, his chuckle slithering through the air.

"Oh no, no, we're just fine. He's right here... Oh, come on, what kind of arch nemesis do you think I am?"

Moriarty strode off into the kitchen, and John heard the soft bangs of opening and closing drawers. His teeth gritting together harshly, he clutched the arms of his chair and tried to heave himself upwards; again, his legs gave out and his head screamed with agony. He fell back in his armchair, gasping, sweat sending chilling shudders through his limbs. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that they began to ache.

"You're not getting off that easy... we'll be waiting for you, right here, and when you come home the games can begin. Oh, and Sherlock?" The chair creaked as Moriarty sat down on one arm. An icy, metal edge grazed John's temple, sending a thrill of fear down his spine. "If you ruin it again, if you go calling for help... The only trace you'll be able to find of your pet will be his eyes. I'll know if you try anything... Got eyes everywhere..."

John didn't even notice Moriarty hang up. He only stopped trying to scramble away when Moriarty's hand came down to grip his head, fingers tangling in his bloody hair, and the pressure of the metal thing increased on his cheek. John snapped his eyes open, found Moriarty leaning down over him, a spoon held delicately between his fingers. Moriarty traced John's eye with the spoon, pressed it against his lid a little. John's heart jolted in pure terror, picturing that spoon spearing into his skull and forcing out his eyeball, imaged the pain, the blood, the horror of holding his own eyes in his hands...

"Sherlock's just around the corner," Moriarty murmured, tapping the spoon against John's forehead. "You just do as you're told, Johnny-boy. If you cause me trouble..."

He didn't have to finish. John couldn't breathe, couldn't move, every sense fixed on the spoon that was trailing small circles beside his eye. His skin was breaking out in gooseflesh, his pulse throbbing violently in his neck. He felt like a rabbit caught up in the teeth of a wolf, just waiting for that moment when the jaws snapped closed and the lights went out... Minutes stretched by, and John didn't dare speak, and Moriarty didn't leave. All John wanted was for Sherlock to come striding through that door, firing deductions and ultimatums everywhere, and somehow miraculously save the day.

And then he remembered the haunted, hollow stare in Sherlock's face that night they had sat up on the sofa and talked, and suddenly realized that all he wanted was for Sherlock to go straight back to the police station and never look back. _Don't be an idiot, _his bedraggled mind managed to think. _Don't, Sherlock, please... _Surely Sherlock wouldn't be foolish enough to come back to the flat alone. He wouldn't, not after everything he'd been through. He would accept help, just this once...

"Shall I?" Moriarty said softly, his words shattering John's thoughts. "You wouldn't miss just one, would you? Like a souvenir, for both of us. Hmm?"

"Nuh, ple..."

John's voice had stopped working again. He could feel droplets of sweat rolling down his spine, down the back of his neck. Moriarty's face split into a massive, white-toothed grin.

"What was that?" he breathed, pressing the spoon into the corner of John's eye. John's whole body jerked in a violent flinch; one hand made a wild grab for Moriarty's sleeve before he could stop it.

"Was that you begging, John Watson?"

John shut his eyes, felt Moriarty's fingers move down to tug at his eyelids. He shook off John's clawing, shaking hands like flies, tilted the spoon-

"Bad time?"

Moriarty paused, and then suddenly vanished from John's side. John felt his whole body sag with exhausted relief, his limbs trembling and numb, the phantom touch of the spoon still lingering against his face. His heart was thundering so hard that he was sure it would burst, sure that the earth was going to swallow him up, sure that the stress and the fear were going to burn him into ashes. He looked up, struggling to focus, half praying that the voice he had heard had simply been a trick of the wind, a creak somewhere in the house, half knowing what he would see. He could make out a tall, lean, dark shape standing in the doorway of the living room. Spidery, pale fingers were pulling at a navy cashmere scarf, tossing it over the arm of the sofa. Unruly, glossy curls of dark brown hair shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight shafting through the windows. John took a long blink, desperate to see his face, desperate to be certain beyond all doubt...

Sherlock's lips were moving, but John could hear nothing over the blood pounding in his ears. And then that angular face turned and those piercing green eyes fixed on John's. In the beat that followed, John saw a thousand things in that face that any other person would miss - the marginal widening of the eyes, the slight twitch of the lips, the barely noticeable drawing together of the eyebrows. John watched as Sherlock drank in every detail and came to a single, definite conclusion - _Not good. Extremely not good._

_I'm alright, _John wanted to say, but now he couldn't even move his lips. The encounter with Moriarty and his spoon had drained him. The many dark spots had returned and were swarming at the edges of his vision, but he managed to blink them away, dug his fingers into his armchair in an effort to remain conscious. He couldn't faint now, not now that Sherlock was here. Sherlock had to feel supported, had to know it was all going to be alright... He watched through a hazy mist of pain as Sherlock crossed the room to the desk, glancing at Agent Williams as he went. Moriarty was leaning on the mantlepiece, flicking the spoon between his fingers, a smirk playing over his lips.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked brightly, as if showing Sherlock a painting he had just done at school.

Sherlock's eyes traveled over the room, flickered towards John, then turned on Moriarty. "I think that this is unbelievably arrogant, even for you," he said, his voice calm and measured, betraying no hint of fear. "If you're going to ransom my friends, at least make an effort to hide them. Don't just sit and wait for me to get home."

"Who said anything about ransom?"

"What then? Another of your games?"

"What else?" Morairty spread his hands. "Let's just think, shall we? What's different, what's _changed _about the great Sherlock Holmes? I am your biggest fan, you know."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed a fraction. His gaze shifted briefly to John, moved over him. The corner of his mouth twitched in the shadow of a smile. If John didn't know better, he would say that Sherlock was trying to comfort him. "Changed?"

Sherlock began to move back around the room, his movements slow, his hands deep in his pockets. Moving towards _him, _John realized. Trying to get a closer look, see if he was alright. Moriarty stood like an iceberg between them, his smile suddenly vanishing. "When I had you, Sherlock, in that factory, I was playing by the rules. You and I, sparring, a game of chess. And then all of a sudden, you call in the police. You go running to daddy. My Sherlock - _the _Sherlock - would never have done that."

"Are you complaining because I lived?"

"I'm complaining because you LIED!"

John froze. Moriarty's voice had taken on that terrifying, insane edge. He gripped the spoon tightly in his fist.

"You lied," he repeated coldly. "You're supposed to be inventive, opportunistic, intelligent. And yeah, at the time I had a ball. But afterwards... well, I was just disappointed. You were pathetic, you were scared and you were _predictable. _And that can't be allowed to go on, Sherlock, it can't."

He clicked his fingers. Agent Williams rose to her feet, her gun swinging around to aim between Sherlock's eyes as he reached the sofa. He stopped, arching an eyebrow. John let out a muffled exclamation and his limbs seemed to remember some of their original functions; with a burst of energy, he gripped the arms of his chair and threw himself forwards. For a second he managed to stand on his own two feet. Then his legs crumbled and he hit the ground, spears of blinding white agony shooting through his head. He could dimly hear Moriarty's high-pitched laugh. He lifted his head to find that Sherlock had taken a step towards him, his pale eyes fixed on John. John tried to smile at him.

_It's okay, _he thought, hoping Sherlock would be able to read the words in his face. _I'm fine, don't worry. Just go, please, don't start playing his games..._

"You see? You s_ee?" _Moriarty was crying, somewhere on the line between disgust and glee. "Just look at you! Look at all this! It has to stop!"

He reached out, took the gun from Agent Williams, and flicked it between his fingers. He waited until he had Sherlock's attention again, his lips skewing into a grin.

"So. Sooo... I'm going to give you a choice. A nice simple choice. Option number one!" he trained the gun on John, his voice drawling as if he was hosting a game show. "You shoot your lovely little pet in the head, and you transform back into the exciting, one-and-only arch enemy I've been waiting my whole life for. Everything goes back to normal. You remain the best that you could ever be. Oooooor, option number two..." He swiveled around, letting the gun fall, his voice turning low. "... You take this lovely, pretty gun, you put the barrel in your mouth, and you squeeze the trigger. Because if I can't have you, Sherlock, nobody can."

Sherlock held his gaze, his face a mask of stone. John had forgotten how to think, how to breathe. His hands clenched into tight fists, his heart stuttered in panic. He didn't know what he wanted to say. Either way they turned, something in John Watson was going to die today, whether it was his mind or his heart. With a surge of effort, he dragged himself up to his knees and crouched there, blinking through the fog before his eyes.

"And because this is _boring," _Moriarty continued, his voice bright once more, "I'll shoot both of you if you don't make a choice in the next two minutes... So... tick tock..."

He began to click his tongue repetitively, counting down the seconds. Sherlock looked at John, his pale green eyes flickering. He stood framed against the sunlight streaming through the window, one hand still deep in his pocket, not a single line betraying a thought on his face.

"Fine," he said suddenly, and John's heart leaped into his throat. Sherlock held out his hand, fingers spread. "Let's get on with it, then."

Moriarty smirked, shook his head, scolding. "Oh, come on, now. Don't insult me. I'll be the one doing the shooting around here. I might let you pull the trigger, but the gun stays in _my _hand."

Sherlock remained motionless for a few seconds, and then slowly lowered his hand. Silence stretched across the room. John tried to catch his eye, but this time Sherlock was pointedly not looking at him. _Don't be upset, _John thought sluggishly, swallowing a gasp of air. _When he tells Moriarty to shoot you, don't be upset... you can't blame him... he'll do the right thing. _Sherlock wasn't moving, his face dark, unreadable. Between them, Moriarty was beginning to fidget, his grin fading.

"For god's sake!" he cried eventually, gesturing wildly with the gun as he spoke. John flinched every time it pointed in his direction. "There's no hesitation, don't you get it? It's so _easy! _What is there to think about? _What?"_

He turned on his heel, stormed over to John. John pulled away, misjudged his own sense of balance, and keeled over to one side; before he could hit the ground, Moriarty had seized him by the collar and was ramming the gun against his forehead, his face contorted with rage. Sherlock didn't move a muscle.

"This? _This?" _Moriarty was shrieking. "You're going to give it all up for this? Who are you, because you, you flawed, stupid, ignorant little bug, cannot _possibly be _Sherlock Holmes!"

"I'm ignorant?" Sherlock said softly. "I'm not the one who's come all the way here to ask a question I already know the answer to."

"I don't believe you."

Moriarty let John go. John sank to the floor, managed to catch himself before he completed a face plant. He lifted his head to see Agent Williams moving towards the door, her brow slightly furrowed, to see Moriarty and Sherlock locked on to one another like heat seeking missiles. Moriarty's lips were parted, his eyes wide. Sherlock... Sherlock was silent. Impenetrable. He stood beside the sofa, tall and steady as a mountain, watching. And then Moriarty uttered an inhuman snarl and his knuckles on the gun turned white.

"That's it, then, isn't is?" he growled, his black eyes boring into Sherlock's face. "That's the end."

Sherlock simply stared back at him. The hand in his pocket twitched slightly. Behind them, Agent Williams was leaning out of the door into the hallway.

"Sir? Mr. Moriarty?"

And then, all at once, everything exploded. John didn't even know that it was possible to cram so much movement between one moment and the next, but somehow it happened. Moriarty's face was carved with thunder as he glared at Sherlock, one eyebrow twitching violently. Then his gun was flying upwards and his finger was jumping on the trigger. Behind them at the door there was a loud crash and a volley of shouting and gunshots; Agent Williams tumbled back against the sofa as dark-clad figures burst into the room. The air was suddenly full of rifles and harsh yells.

John barely registered their entrance; as soon as Moriarty's shoulders had pulled together, as soon as his lips had tightened, John had seen the bullet coming. Every fiber in his body roared into overdrive and his legs lashed out with more power than he even knew they had. Before he knew it he was throwing himself towards his silent, still flatmate, his broken ribs stopping him from diving for safety, his only movement a slight widening of the eyes. The gunshot cracked the air like electricity as John crossed the distance between them, as his hand came into contact with Sherlock's chest. His head protested with a violent stab of agony and a flash of white obscured his vision.

The world seemed to blink out of existence. There was too much noise, too much motion, all fuzzy and just out of sight. John felt rooted to the floor, his breath stuck fast in his throat. Too late. Too late. Why, why, why had he been so slow? Why hadn't he been at Sherlock's side the moment Moriarty had let go? God, why hadn't he _done something? _Sherlock's body, although on the mend, was too weak to cope with a gunshot wound now. Every medical instinct was whispering to John that he had screwed it all up for the last time. This time, Sherlock wasn't going to be able to claw his way back on pure determination.

John tried to shake himself out off the horrified, stunned trance he had dropped into, tried to open his mouth to call for an ambulance. He could hear a muffled shouting. The people who had come into the room. Moriarty. He, John, would be next. Maybe there was no chance, no time left at all, but there was no way he would give up on Sherlock now. He had to _try _for god's sake... He tried to force him vision back into place, trying to regain control of his body, which only seemed to be spiraling further away with every second. And then he realized that he could feel the hard wooden floor against his knees. Even though he couldn't remember kneeling down. The ground jerked abruptly, and he felt himself sway. His eyes finally began to work again, and he caught a glimpse of the floor, and of something bright, bright red spilling all over it...

_Wait..._

Hands closed about his shoulders as he fell backwards, a puppet cut from its strings. The arms faltered a little but pulled him into their warm cocoon, wrapped tightly around him. God, he could feel the pain now. He could feel it hurling itself through his veins with every beat of his heart, feel his whole chest burn with it. He'd forgotten just how much it hurt. He became aware of a distant voice calling his name, a voice that seemed so very far away.

"John... John... Dear god, John, don't... just... John, come on..."

Oh, he knew that voice. Faster, higher, louder than he was used to, but still that same voice. Cool fingers passed across his face, tapped his cheek gently. The body hunched around him shuddered ever so slightly, and that horrible pain was momentarily blotted out with concern. Was this what Sherlock sounded like when he was scared? With a mammoth effort, John cracked his eyes open - he couldn't remember closing them - and found Sherlock hanging over him, those green eyes wide and wild, the corner of his mouth twitching madly.

"John, John, look at me." Sherlock's words were fast and clipped, strangely different from the smooth, relaxed flow of his usual conversation. "Keep your eyes fixed on mine. You're going to be alright, there's already an ambulance on its way. John, can you hear me?"

John tried to reply. He tried to tell Sherlock that he _was _looking at him, and that yes, of course he could hear him, but instead as soon as he took a deeper breath pain stormed through his chest and something hot and coppery forced itself into his throat. He was coughing before he could stop himself. He choked as blood sprayed from his lips, gasped helplessly as agony blazed through him like a bonfire, consuming all trace of logical thought. He could hear some strange, strangled sound, and hazily understood that it was coming from his own mouth. He could hear Sherlock too, his voice so very faint now, his long hand clenched on John's arm. John felt his body lose the energy to cough any more, swallowed hard, tasted more blood. His body was giving up. He had nothing left to fight with. His sodden shirt was sticking to his chest as blood soaked through it. He couldn't feel his legs, let alone hope to move them...

But Sherlock was still right there, right beside him, calling for him, his voice climbing higher as fear began to make cracks in that familiar marble mask. John tried to open his eyes again, saw a glimmer of light, a flash of green. And then there were more voices, more hands on him, and Sherlock was being torn away... His voice seemed to grow louder. He was shouting, John realized. He was scared. He was panicking. John found himself imagining Sherlock crouched on his chair just a few days ago, rocking, kneading his forehead, trembling as he struggled to overcome a panic attack... The image sparked up enough energy for him to speak, his voice hoarse and rough.

"S'okay, Sher'ock... S'gonna be okay..."

He could barely hear his own words. He was punished for his efforts fast enough - before he could draw breath to speak again the rasping coughs were back, and his whole body was on fire, and the pain was so bad that it seemed to swallow up everything else in its vastness, and the dark was coming, coming so quickly...

**Next chapter up soonish... Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it.**

**Reviews are welcome.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did I would never leave my bedroom.**

**Apologies for the wait, this was a long chapter and it took a while to get right. I'm still not completely happy with it. We're very nearly at the end now...**

**Enjoy.**

There are times when all the intricate motions and sounds and sights that make up the world fall apart and become little more than impressions; globs of paint streaked along a canvas in no real shape or texture; something akin to the way sunlight shifts and flares when it flows through water. These times are rarely remembered in any detail. They exist on the very brink of memories, too strange to forget, too obscure to re-imagine.

_"No, excuse me, you're not allowed in here, his condition is far too serious..."_

_"I fail to see how my being here will affect his condition."_

_Hard, cold plastic pressing against his face. Oxygen mask. Thin air. Still so hard to breathe... hurts so much..._

_"All the same, Mr. Holmes, if you'll just-"_

_"No, I don't think so. I'm staying here. If you have a problem, you can take it up with my brother."_

Occasionally, they almost seem as if they should mean something. Names or places crop up, or sometimes simply the muffled voices are enough to spark off a thought. But in the limbo between life and death, thought never seems to get very far at all.

_"Lost a lot of blood, coupled... severe concussion... complications..."_

_Cool air conditioning tearing across his skin. Eyes open - white. Harsh white. Eyes close fast. Brain stalls at the blinding glare._

_"Puncture's much worse than we... Large collections of air and fluid in between the lung tissue... No choice but to operate..."_

_Fingertips tingle. Sensation of falling. Needles prick through skin with a sharp sting. Head is swirling._

Inside that immeasurable gap, time never seems to pick up again. It stops in its tracks and watches with you as the world speeds on in some other dimension. Here, everything is so much slower. So much more distant.

_"I - don't - care. He doesn't like it here, I can tell."_

_"He's unconscious, Sherlock, he has no idea whether he likes it here or not. Just because you've always hated hospitals..."_

_Skin against his skin. Fingers probing. Light shining in his eyes, blinking on and off._

_"No... Look! Just look... absolutely no idea..."_

_"And how exactly do you propose..."_

_Louder voices, anger, arguments, frustration. Beeping. Squeak of rubber shoes on a polished floor. Cold._

_"... resources... got people, haven't you? Just... Thank you, Mycroft."_

When it finally comes to an end, real life doesn't seem right anymore. All of a sudden, you can find that you've forgotten how to be real at all.

_"Careful... No, I'll do it... Mrs. Hudson... Yes... Home... alright..."_

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes liked to think that he was a patient man. He liked to think that he at least attempted to be polite, kept his temper, and rarely allowed himself to be swayed by the tantrums of his petulant and childish little brother. Of course, what Mycroft liked to think didn't always go to plan. It was... difficult... to be patient with Sherlock sometimes.<p>

"Well, are you staying for tea?"

Sherlock's voice, dripping with sarcasm, trembled as he shot a glare at his brother. His face was worn and pale, his eyes ringed with darkness. Mycroft surveyed him quietly, savagely enjoying the way that Sherlock fidgetted beneath his gaze, tried to busy himself with something else. His hand crept uncertainly across the sheets of the bed beside him, stopped inches away from the fingers lying motionless on top of them. Then, abruptly, he pushed his hands into his pockets, picked at nothing on his dressing gown, and finally turned his icy eyes back to Mycroft.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

Sherlock made a noise of frustration low in his throat. Mycroft leaned against the door frame to allow the nurse past him into the room, tracing the handle of his umbrella with his finger tips. The nurse - now the only outsider allowed into Baker Street - made her way over to the side of the bed and began to prepare the injection she had come to administer. Sherlock watched her with eagle eyes, his lip curling as she laid out the equipment. Funny how easily any simple room could be converted into a mini-hospital. All that had been needed were sterile sheets, a few lumps of machinery carted over from Mycroft's private surgery and up the stairs of Mrs. Hudson's battered flat, and the employment of an intelligent and thick-skinned nurse who could stand Sherlock's constant snide comments and complaints. It had been done quickly - within a couple of hours, John Watson's room at Baker Street had been transformed into a tiny private hospital.

Because, of course, Sherlock always had to be difficult.

Mycoft was used to getting strange calls from his little brother. What he was not used to was getting strange calls from DI Lestrade, yapping in a garbled voice that one of the agents had been a traitor, that Sherlock and John were being taken to a hospital, that Moriarty had been involved... On his way to the hospital, Mycroft had vented his fury on the two other agents who were now scrabbling to come up with something useful, desperately trying to correct their terrible mistake. Smith had been in charge of the operation, had chosen his two accomplices. Mycroft had trusted Smith. And now he was extremely angry.

By the time he reached the hospital, both Smith and Jones had been severely demoted and Sherlock - who had been refusing to answer his phone - was creating hell on earth for every other person in the ER. His face was bloodless and tinged with sweat, his hands were shaking, his hair was a tangled mess and he was ranting furiously as security attempted to make him sit and calm down. Mycroft took in his limp, the way he was cradling his side, his ashen complexion and the high-pitched tremor in his voice and made a decision. In the next few seconds, Sherlock was bolting through the pair of double doors ahead and Mycroft was tucking his identification back into his pocket and collecting John's chart from the doctor before following his brother. According to said chart, John Watson had been rushed straight into emergency surgery and the medics were battling with a punctured lung. High risk injury. Blood loss coupled with unknown drug abuse meant a low survival expectancy. Mycroft considered the three possible paths fate may throw them down as he and Sherlock followed the glass signs and arrows on the walls.

A) John survives. Sherlock returns to his usual sarcastic, mocking, petty self.

B) John dies. Sherlock is depressed for a time before recovering and finding another flat mate to follow him about on his cases.

C) John dies. Sherlock does not recover.

He turned this last outcome over several times in his head, trying to see it in the best possible light, and realized quickly that it was by far the most likely and the most terrible. He wondered if Sherlock had allowed himself to reach the same conclusion yet. He opened his mouth to ask, and then closed it again with a grimace. He reached the small viewing room to the surgical theater a few paces behind Sherlock. For once, he let Sherlock's infinite mind run on without interruption.

He watched his little brother standing pressed up against the screen, one hand splayed against the glass, shoulders hunched, tension ringing through his body. Mycroft stood quietly behind him, hands folded over his umbrella. They watched in silence as tall ghosts in green gowns and masks bent over the fragile body laid out on the operating table, watched scalpels slice through skin and machines whine and gloved hands prod. The faltering heart monitor skipped and jumped; blood pumped desperately through an IV in an attempt to replenish the vast supply leaking out.

"Don't say it."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected Sherlock to say anything. And yet that hoarse, rough voice split the silence clenched over the tiny box-like room, and Sherlock turned his head ever so slightly to fix on clear green eye on Mycroft, the corner of his mouth quivering, his face painted in the weird, artificial light of the hospital.

"'Caring is not an advantage'. I know you're just itching to say it."

Mycroft rearranged his hands atop his umbrella. "I wasn't going to say anything."

Sherlock turned back to the window, his back stiff, still holding his ribs. Mycroft concluded that John hadn't had the chance to administer Sherlock's afternoon medicine and pain killers. He considered calling someone to retrieve the required pills, but then decided against it. Sherlock wasn't going to take them. So he watched and waited in silence instead.

Against his prediction - against all odds, in fact - John Watson emerged from surgery and was wheeled up to the intensive care unit with Sherlock trotting beside him, one hand on the railing of the gurney, his brows furrowed tightly. Mycroft followed a few steps behind, asking the routine questions, aware that Sherlock would be listening to every word the doctor said. It was all to be expected - critical condition, tests would be run, possible that a severe lung infection could follow, a tube had been placed in the lung to remove fluid and allow antibiotic circulation, if the next few hours went well it could take anywhere between eight weeks and three months for a full recovery, mostly depending upon complications that may or may not follow...

Mycroft allowed the words to wash over him, his own attention on the back of Sherlock's head, and on the hand that had clenched tightly over the gurney.

He ensured Sherlock's permission to stay with John before leaving. Moriarty was on his way to a secure location in the depths of the British countryside, and Mycroft intended to be there for when he arrived. On top of that the leak in their security had been far too big and far too dangerous for him to let slide. He stepped into the sleek, black car waiting for him outside the hospital and put his brother out of his mind.

He returned two days later. According to Lestrade, Sherlock had not left the hospital and did not look as if he planned to any time soon. Mycroft found him in the small, private room John had been moved to. His little brother was slouched in a straight-backed chair beside the bed, his knees hugged against his chest, his face sprinkled with stubble and his eyes slightly glazed. Mycroft read John's chart. No infection. Puncture to lungs to be checked every few hours and dressing changed daily. Tube to be removed soon. Patient currently in a drug induced coma. Unknown drug had not been identified as of yet, although it was now out of his system. Mycroft flipped through the pages, then replaced the chart and glanced at Sherlock.

"Good news, then."

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched.

"Well, now that we're out of the woods, how about returning to some basic human hygiene routines?"

Sherlock turned a glare on Mycroft, his jaw clenching. "It's hardly as if I care what these chemistry students think of me," he said.

"I see no reason for you to stay."

"What, and leave him with _these people?" _he sneered the word, casting a joyless smirk at the door. "They had an intern in here earlier, couldn't even remember how to work the monitor. I'm afraid my presence is absolutely necessary if John hopes to recover at all, since the staff here have no idea how to do their jobs effectively."

He spat the syllables into the air, his face twisted as if he had tasted something disgusting. His hands were trembling a little. He didn't appear to be in too much pain, despite his odd position on the chair. Apparently he had started taking his medication again, either at Lestrade's urging or the doctors'. Mycroft rolled his eyes. He knew his brother well enough to read the concern in his voice, the rejection of any kind of outside contact that could stand to destroy his most precious possession. He pulled his mobile from his pocket, sent a text to his secretary telling her to cancel his afternoon appointment with the Foreign Secretary and turned to look for a chair. He saw one across the room in a corner and dragged it over to the opposite side of the bed, settled into it with a sigh. Sherlock watched him.

"What on earth do you think you're doing, Mycroft?"

"Well, I have nowhere in particular to be," Mycroft responded flippantly. He rested his umbrella against the chair, linked his hands across his stomach. "I thought I might stay here for a little while. Keep an eye on things, perhaps."

He let that last sentence hang in the air, leaving no uncertainty about his meaning. Sherlock swallowed hard. He glanced at John, and then at Mycroft. For once, it seemed that he didn't quite know what to say. Quite abruptly, he stood up and snatched up his coat, lips parted but no sound coming out. Eventually he seemed to find the words.

"In that case, I'll go home to change. The facilities in these places are truly disgusting. I doubt it'll take long."

"Oh. Fine." Mycroft spoke lightly, studying a poster on the wall asking for donations for cancer research. The little blonde girl taking up most of the space was smiling widely.

Sherlock turned on his heel and strode over to the door, opened it. He paused on the threshold, and for a moment Mycroft thought he would flounce back again, order his brother out, demand that he stop poking his nose in things that didn't concern him. But then Sherlock had vanished into the corridor, and Mycroft was alone. He looked down at the patient in the bed beside him. A clear plastic oxygen mask obscured most of his face. His blonde hair looked slightly duller. Perhaps that was simply because his skin looked grey, slightly too thin to stand any kind of prolonged contact. Work-worn, calloused hands lay on the hospital blanket. Eyes flicked to and fro briefly beneath their lids. Mycroft found himself smiling and shook his head.

"Mr. Watson," he muttered under his breath. "What have you done to my brother?"

True to his word, Sherlock reappeared barely an hour later with brushed hair, a fresh set of clothes, and a distinctly more lively expression. As this, of course, meant that he had more energy with which to jibe at Mycroft's fluctuating diet, the elder Holmes chose this moment to excuse himself. Now convinced that the situation had been adequately handled and would play out fairly smoothly from then on, he decided to stay out of it all for a while.

At least, until he received a call from the hospital a week later complaining that Sherlock's behavior was affecting the work of the nurses, and then a short, sharp demand by text from Sherlock himself. Casting his eyes skywards and imagining what it might be like to trust your brother to play by the rules for just a little while, Mycroft set down the files he had been examining, called his right-hand agent to explain that his visit to Moriarty would have to wait, and headed over to the hospital with a reluctant heart. He reached John's room in the middle of a rather loud disagreement between Sherlock and one of the doctors. The doctor practically wept with relief as Mycroft joined them, tried to explain what was happening, but Mycroft waved him away. Sherlock held his gaze, slightly breathless, his cheeks flushed with anger, his hands balled into fists.

"I want him moved."

"Moved, brother dearest?"

"Moved," Sherlock bit out. "Moved back home."

Mycroft let out a bark of laughter, earning a slightly affronted stare from his brother. "Oh please, Sherlock, even you're not foolish enough to endanger poor John's life simply because your social skills are lacking. What did they do? Were the sandwiches from the canteen not cut in perfect scalene triangles?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the reference to his childhood, and his lips pressed together tightly. Mycroft arched his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation. He felt he had a right to be irritated at Sherlock's refusal to play nicely - Mycroft had secured him complete access to John's room, ensured that the best minds in medicine would be tending to John, and since the sidekick had actually survived, Sherlock had no right to be throwing tantrums. Yet here he was, standing before Mycroft, barely containing his rage.

"He's stable enough to be moved now. If you won't do it, I'll find somebody who will."

Mycroft snorted. "And _why, _pray tell? This is a perfectly adequate hospital, Sherlock."

"I - don't - care. He doesn't like it here, I can tell!"

Mycroft snorted, casting a glance at the bed. John had a slightly healthier complexion than he had on Mycroft's last visit, although the oxygen mask was still in place and his bare chest was still covered with wires and carefully aerated bandages. A nurse was attending to some of the gauze, and John's eyes twitched beneath their lids as she touched his skin.

"He's unconscious, Sherlock, he has no idea whether he likes it here or not. Just because you've always hated hospitals after Mummy-"

"Do you think you could refrain from bringing Mummy into this, just for once?" Sherlock snapped. He strode over to the bedside, snatched up John's arm. The nurse made a sound of protest, but Sherlock ignored her. "No, Mycroft, I won't let this go. Look! Just look."

Mycroft followed slowly, inspected the slight bruises on John's inner elbow, the small red marks in peppering his skin. "What about it?"

"An intern," Sherlock ground out between his teeth. "I left the room for a matter of minutes, and by the time I returned some _child _was using him as a pincushion. I won't have it. They have absolutely no idea."

"And how exactly do you propose to do this?" Mycroft said. "You'll call a cab, I suppose, get him up the stairs with the help of your next door neighbor? For goodness sake, Sherlock, you're over-reacting-"

"No. _No." _Sherlock's anger was building. Mycroft could see it hovering behind his eyes as he glared at the nurse, who hastily retreated. "I have been here for a week, Mycroft, a _week, _and I have _deduced _that these people are unable to account for John's care. I'll do it myself if no one else can be bothered, I've read enough of the textbooks."

"I think you'll find medical practice a little more difficult than that."

"He doesn't need to be here."

"He needs attention, Sherlock, you can't look after him by yourself!"

"You have resources, Mycroft, don't pretend you don't!" Sherlock's voice had risen, and they were attracting looks from people who passed by the room. "You've got private clinics, you've got people, haven't you?"

"For _emergencies, _yes, and I hardly think this is so extreme..."

"Mycroft, will you just..."

Sherlock's hand jumped to his hair, and Mycroft felt a twinge of surprise. Nervous? Sherlock was actually upsetting himself over this? Mycroft took a second look at him, frowning. His skinny frame and too-big shirt indicated he'd been eating as little as possible. His skin was clammy from days spent inside. He was taking heavy, harsh breaths through his nose. His brother had been transformed into a teenager again, mind cemented in the moment, heart over-ruling his every decision, scrabbling for scientific evidence to conceal his desperation... Mycroft wondered just when his brother's life and the life of this retired, unremarkable army doctor had become so interwoven. It seemed now that there was no possible way to draw them apart. He resisted the urge to tut and instead rolled his tongue over his teeth before reaching for his mobile. Sherlock's eyes widened in hope, and then the tension drained out of his shoulders as he watched Mycroft text.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

Mycroft almost dropped his phone. The last time Sherlock had revealed any kind of affection to his brother, he had been fourteen years old and sitting under the big tree in their tiny back garden, Mycroft's arm slung awkwardly across his shoulder, neither really sure how to analyse the news that had just been thrown into their faces by Mummy. Sherlock had shuffled, already such a strange human being, already a confirmed sociopath, and yet his cheeks had glittered with the tracks of tears. And he had said those three stunted words as Mycroft fumbled for a tissue, not quite certain whether he should even offer it or not.

Mycroft managed to rescue his composure and hurriedly set about organizing John's removal from the hospital.

"Well? I assume you have some sort of reason for coming here."

Now, Sherlock's voice was hard as he turned away from John, his bare feet apart on the wooden floor, his arms folded over his chest. He was back in his element, back in his safe little zone of privacy. Mycroft was surprised that the nurse he had hired for the job had agreed to stay as long as she had; it wasn't often that a person from the normal world could bear Sherlock's rather singular attitude.

"Perhaps you could at least _try _to be civil, Sherlock. This wasn't easy to organize, I hope you know."

"If you're going to leave it hanging over me like some gruesome deal with the devil, you can take him back," Sherlock shot back, fully aware that Mycroft would never do so.

"It's Moriarty," Mycroft said at last, cutting across Sherlock's muttering.

He watched Sherlock stiffen slightly, watched his sarcastic smile fade. His eyes darted briefly to John, and then swiveled back to face Mycroft.

"Well?" he said.

Mycroft looked at him, unsmiling. "He's been asking for you. We thought perhaps you would..."

He let the words trail off, let Sherlock complete the request himself. His brother's face didn't change. Slowly, Sherlock let his arms fall and tilted his head. The nurse at John's side had stopped her work, watching quietly. Even John himself seemed to be listening, on some level of unconsciousness, tapping into the moment. Sherlock held his brother's gaze. Then he uttered a single, definite word.

"No."

Mycroft blinked. "No? Simply 'No'?"

"Not yet."

Sherlock reached for John's padded desk chair, which he had positioned beside the bed, and dropped into it. He put his feet up on the edge of the mattress, scooped up the book resting on the nightstand. Mycroft let out a dark huff of laughter, not sure whether his brother was trying to be funny.

"The world didn't stop, Sherlock," he said, his voice tight. "We're all still working. Moriarty still has people out there. Don't be naive enough to say it's over."

Sherlock looked at him over the top of his book, and a slight smirk tweaked at the corner of his lips. Then his eyes were fixed on the page once more.

"For now, it is. I'm far to busy, Lestrade's just drowning me in case after case... perhaps in a month or two. When John's back on his feet."

"Your selfish, massive ego never fails to surprise me," Mycroft muttered. "Are we all supposed to wait for you?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He was reading, thumbing the corner of the next page absently, settling back in his chair. Mycroft let out a groan of frustration and turned on his heel.

"Mrs Hudson will be brought back in a few days," he threw over his shoulder. "I've taken the liberty to organize that too, seeing has you have completely neglected to do so."

He strode out into the corridor and down the stairs, not waiting for a reply, all too aware of the grin that was edging its way across Sherlock's face. For some unfathomable reason, making Mycroft angry made Sherlock feel elated. For the life of him, Mycroft would never be able to understand why.

* * *

><p>John could see the dull, engraved ceiling of his own room high above him. He was burrowed beneath two thick duvets, which effectively left him in an extremely comfortable and extremely warm cocoon of soft, worn sheets. His pillows had been stacked up, enabling him to recline partially upright. His eyes felt gummy and heavy, his mouth dry. He remained still, blinking slowly as the ceiling came into focus, enjoying the familiar smell of his room and the gentle, late-afternoon sunlight creeping through the curtains. It took him a while to notice the steady, soft beep of several machines that were standing around his bed and the plastic oxygen tube running beneath his nose. When he finally did see them - and recognize them as fairy advanced medical equipment - he turned his head, and then tried to sit up. Pain spread through his chest in a hot flare and he froze, lay down again quickly before it could get worse. A dull headache began to sear behind his eyes. He shut them hastily, taking deep gulps of oxygen, waiting for it all to pass. It faded, but his tranquil haven of snug warmth had been lost. He couldn't get back to sleep.<p>

He lay still, staring up at the ceiling through glazed eyes, absently feeling the bandages wrapped around his chest with one hand. Gradually, like rain collecting in a bucket, the details of his encounter with Moriarty came crawling back into his head. He knew exactly what had happened to him; he had been shot. Managed to puncture a lung, too, by the feel of it and the way his chest was so tight and sensitive to every breath. What he didn't understand was a) how he had survived such a point-blank shot and b) why he was now in 221b. He had no idea how much time had passed nor where anyone else was; the flat was surprisingly quiet, and his desk chair had been dragged over to his bedside but was now empty.

Or it was, until the door opened with a soft thud and Sherlock appeared with his mobile in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, one eyebrow sharply arched as he scanned his texts. John felt a heady rush of relief at the sight of him, and then some degree of surprise. Sherlock was holding himself fully upright, paying no attention to his injured ribs. The bruises on his face had completely cleared up. Squinting and raising his head as far as he could, John could see that Sherlock was not wearing a bandage beneath his shirt. For a moment John thought Sherlock's health had miraculously returned overnight. And then he remembered his current position. He must have been unconscious for some time. Sherlock looked up from his text and found John's eyes open. For a fraction of a second, his eyebrows leaped and his throat clenched as he swallowed hard. Then his lips curved into a pleasant smile, and he sat down in the desk chair. He set his mobile down on the bed, took a sip from his cup of tea.

"Good evening," he said coolly.

John blinked at him, feeling a smile spread across his own face. "Hey," he said, bemused. He had to clear his throat, swallow a few times before speaking again; apparently he hadn't used his vocal chords for some time. "This is... Baker Street?"

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. "I disliked the hospital. I got bored."

"Right."

John looked around at the various machines, then lay back against the pillows, still trying to regulate his breathing. Sherlock sipped from his tea, his eyes studying John with silent intensity. John squirmed a little beneath his stare.

"Moriarty?" he said at last.

"With Mycroft."

"Ah."

"You remember what happened?"

John couldn't mask a shiver as the feel of that cold, metal spoon against his skin leaped into his mind. "Yeah, yeah."

Sherlock gave a short nod. "Mrs. Hudson's back tomorrow," he said, his voice still persistently calm. He leaned forwards and retrieved a book from the nightstand, slouched back in the chair with one foot braced against the bedside cabinet. John watched him, eyebrows raised. Certainly no trouble from the rib, then.

"Right, right," he murmured. He turned his gaze on the ceiling. He felt that he should be asking more questions, that he should be talking more, and yet... he didn't want to. He felt undeniably safe. Warm. Home. Sherlock was there. He knew that there were a thousand things to worry about, millions of tiny problems and dilemmas that, given half a chance, would overwhelm him in a flood. But right now, he could think of none of them. He felt wonderfully misty, wonderfully distant. He turned his head to look at Sherlock, watched his flatmate's eyes skim the page, flying over the words. It was oddly therapeutic to watch, and John could feel his eyelids growing heavy. He was reading Hardy. For some reason, John found that thought hilarious. Sherlock, the master of deduction, the scientist and analyst, enjoyed reading novels in his spare time. Sherlock's eyes suddenly lifted from the page.

"Everything alright?" he said lightly.

John smiled, let himself chuckle despite the stab of pain. "Fine," he said softly.

His eyes were too heavy to keep open, and he didn't mind. He closed them and listened to the gentle rustle of paper as Sherlock turned the pages of his book until he fell asleep.

**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it. I'd say just one more chapter should do it... :)**

**Reviews are very welcome.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Don't own it, you know it, I know it, we all know it...**

**Sooo final chapter. Thanks very, very much for all of you who reviewed this fic with such kind words. Hope the last chapter doesn't disappoint. Some of you mentioned that you would like a sequel - not sure about that, not sure what I'd put in it... Still, doesn't mean I'll stop writing for Sherlock :)**

**Hope you enjoy it.**

Strange, how taking a bullet for your sociopath flatmate could make life at home so incredibly awkward.

Free of the heavy pain medication, the endless blood tests and the numerous check ups and examinations, John walked the grey paving slabs of Baker Street with a strange nervousness fluttering his stomach. His good shoulder had now become his bad shoulder, and he was forced to carry the long, leather case in his left hand, which sent twinges of pain through the old scar in his arm. His limp had been playing up for a few days, but now it was beginning to slip out of his life once more, retreating to a small, barely noticeable falter. Sherlock dismissed its return with a wave of his hand, and had offered John the revolver to shoot at the wall. Scowling, John had snatched it and replaced it in the safe at the bottom of his wardrobe, all too aware that Sherlock would somehow figure out the combination and retrieve it the next time boredom crept up on them. But in all honesty the past few weeks, although uneventful, had been almost peaceful. Almost... pleasant.

According to Lestrade, who had dropped in to visit the day after John returned to the land of the living, Moriarty was under close surveillance in a secure unit owned by Mycroft somewhere in the British countryside. After their disastrous encounter with him in 221b, John had been unconscious for a week and a half. He also learned that Sherlock had demanded that he be removed from the hospital at around the same time and had managed to get Mycroft to set up a tiny clinic at home. John wasn't quite sure how he should react to this news. On one hand, he supposed he should be flattered that Sherlock had been concerned enough to refuse to leave his side. On the other, rejecting an entire hospital due to an inflated ego and a refusal to accept that anyone could possibly know more about what was the best course of action than himself was a far cry, even for Sherlock. Lestrade seemed to think it was endearing; Mycroft that it was slightly amusing. Eventually, John gave up on texting them. In the three weeks that followed, John contented himself with doing very little. He spent most of his time in bed or on the sofa, half asleep and enjoying Sherlock's running commentary on reality television. He limped from his bedroom to the living room and back again, rarely daring to venture downstairs. And once Mrs. Hudson returned there was little need to.

Sherlock was oddly attentive, oddly aware of John's presence. He, too, ignored the majority of cases that Lestrade offered up. When John fell asleep in front of the television, he would wake up with the thick blanket from his armchair thrown over him. When his punctured lung stung so much that all he wanted to do was itch, Sherlock would appear with cups of tea to keep his hands busy. For the first time John could remember, the world's only consulting detective seemed content to sit and read, or flick idly through old case files, or spend half an hour deciding what takeaway to buy. Mrs. Hudson's visits were frequent, usually involving home-cooked dinners or cakes, and a volley of high-pitched scolding, ordering that they were more careful, telling them that such reckless violence was completely and utterly pointless..

Eventually, John was allowed out of the house on his own. He had the dignity to feel a twinge of remorse for the way he had mothered Sherlock when their places had been reversed; once Mrs. Hudson returned, he got a fine taste for what it felt like to have someone watching over your every move. And even Sherlock's constant glances and scrutinizing stares were becoming stifling as the days crawled on. But John played the game, took his antibiotics and kept himself busy with as menial entertainment as he could find in 221b Baker Street. And as a month passed and he began to return to a relatively normal routine - which meant that Sherlock became less caring and more frustrated and bored - he began to notice just how quiet it was...

He didn't discuss Moriarty with Sherlock, and his flatmate didn't bring it up. It seemed to be an unspoken agreement between them; that Moriarty would be dealt with when they were ready, and that 'ready' was still a long way off on the horizon. In fact, John didn't discuss much with Sherlock at all. It seemed, particularly with the Holmes brothers, actions spoke louder than words. Some things couldn't be said. Some thing's were better demonstrated.

As he approached 221b, controlling his breathing as he walked in an attempt to lessen the small shards of pain spearing through his chest, John felt that anxiety tremble in his veins once more. He hadn't felt like this since he had turned up at Jane Morrian's house the night of prom and shaken her father's hand, knees jelly beneath him. Afghanistan brought a different kind of tension, a more brutal uncertainty. Affairs like these were... difficult. He hefted the case experimentally in his hand, wondering if it was meant to be so heavy.

"You can't just fix this one?" he had asked in the shop, watching as the large-bellied, hairy-armed man pawed through the carrier bag on the counter, his eyebrows raised.

"No, lad, I don't reckon. This one's past it. Shame, very nice make. What happened, again?"

John skirted around the question. "Do you have anything similar? As close as you can get to this one?"

The man's eyes had lit up, and he had vanished into the back of the small shop. John had waited for him to come back, and then appreciated with genuine awe the contents of the case he offered up. And then he had appreciated with genuine horror the price.

"You don't have anything... I don't know... cheaper?"

That had earned him a laugh.

But there were some things that surpassed life savings, that surpassed common sense, that surpassed almost everything for that matter. John Watson had all that he would ever need, here and now. He had his safety net back. And that was just about worth the strain on his bank accounts. Besides, if Mycroft was willing to shift hundreds of pounds worth of medical equipment into their flat at a moment's notice, John doubted the umbrella-twirling head of the British government was going to let him starve.

He reached 221B and stopped outside the glossy black door, hesitating. He felt ridiculous hovering about on the door step, and his eyes traveled up to squint at the window, half expecting Sherlock to be peering out. His flatmate had been rather more restless than usual recently; the calm phase of their holiday from crime was over, John no longer needed handling with kid gloves and every book, case note and document in the flat had been read and re-read. Which restricted him to trawling endlessly through internet posts and emails, which led to boredom, which led to general destruction and bad tempers throughout the flat... If nothing else, perhaps this would jolt him out of the grouchy, stubborn mood he had been stuck in for the last week or so. Shaking himself, John slid his key into the lock, turned it, and slipped inside. He called a greeting to Mrs. Hudson, received a muffled 'hello!' in response, made his way up the stairs. His chest was throbbing violently by the time he reached the top, but he felt good after the walk in the fresh, autumnal air, his lungs refreshed, his skin remembering how to feel the sunlight. He moved into the living room, smirked at the sight of Sherlock curled on the sofa, eyes glued to Jeremy Kyle, lip curled.

"For god - no - for god's _sake _are you all insane? No, it's not the cousin! Are you _blind? _How can you call yourself a professional? _How?"_

John put the case down quietly on the kitchen table. He paused, not quite sure what to say. In the end, he simply said, "Tea?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Yes, yes, of course, I told you to make some half an hour ago, were you not listening?"

John snorted, turned to put the kettle on. The roar of boiling water filled the kitchen. John leaned against the counter, rubbing his chest, sighing, listening to Sherlock scream abuse at the television. Eventually, the detective leaped to his feet, turned the TV off with such force that it almost fell from its table, then stalked over to the desk and hunched over his - John's - laptop. John watched him scroll through their - John's - blog and the emails he had received, watched his face contort in frustration.

"Good god... Is it fun, John? Is it fun, with you normal people, having your normal little lives, I mean, have you read this drivel? Is this all I have for the next few weeks? My mind, John, my mind must be kept awake, my mind is falling into a coma!"

John poured out two mugs of tea. He carried them across the room, set Sherlock's down on the desk, then retreated to his own armchair. He picked up the paper, shook it out with a sigh of contentment, put his feet up. As he scanned the front page, Sherlock took a sip from his mug and then slammed it down on the desk with a bang.

"Too much sugar! Can you do nothing right, John? Two sugars, two teaspoons, is even that beyond your minuscule intellect?"

John rolled his eyes behind the paper, opened it up to the first page. "Mmmh," he said in response, cradling his own mug in his lap, wriggling into a more comfortable position in his armchair. Sherlock muttered under his breath, pushed some things on the desk around a little. He stood up, stormed over to the window, glared out at the street. John read the same sentence four times before opening his mouth to speak again, his breath strangely short.

"There's something on the table for you."

"I don't _want _any more ridiculous teenage clients!"

"It's not anything to do with clients."

"Well, I'm not having any more of Mrs. Hudson's oatmeal biscuits, they're disgusting and you're only encouraging her by wolfing them down every chance you get."

John's temper was inching from warm to hot, and he cleared his throat, closed his eyes for a moment to remind himself that he was supposed to be avoiding stress, he was supposed to be relaxing. "Will you just go and look?"

He could feel Sherlock's answering scowl through the folds of the newspaper. His flatmate scooped up his mug loudly, strode past so fast that the pages of John's paper fluttered. "Fine. I suppose I'll make another tea while I'm at it, seeing as nobody else in this entire city seems to be able to drum it through their thick skulls that-"

He broke off sharply, his footsteps came to a halt. John kept his eyes trained on the words of the newspaper, tried to stare at a picture of children conducting a charity event in Hampshire. The colors faded to grey before him; his ears were straining for sounds in the kitchen. He heard three quiet steps on the kitchen floor, heard the creak of buckles flipping open, the gentle squeak of leather as the case opened. John didn't know what to feel. Embarrassed? Smug? Proud? He didn't know. So he just sat in silence, carried on pretending to read his newspaper. His pricked ears heard a soft _clunk, _the whisper of a thumb against fine wire strings. There was a pause, a pause that seemed to stretch for a long, long time. Then the footsteps returned, and stopped behind him. He waited for a few seconds, and then craned his neck back to see Sherlock standing at his shoulder, his face still, his eyes oddly wide and brimming with something that John couldn't name. It wasn't an expression that John found familiar in his flatmate. In those long, slender, pale fingers was the dark, reddish neck of the violin, the sleek bow. John let his eyes rove over the instrument once more, taking in every smooth detail, reveling in the fact that if such a creation had the power to render Sherlock Holmes speechless, it must be worth all the money in the world. John felt a smile pushing at his mouth, glanced up at Sherlock, whose silent lips were parted.

"Well?" he prompted, grinning. "Give us a tune."

For a few moments longer, Sherlock simply stared at him. Something echoed between them as John held his gaze, something wordless that could never be restrained with words, something that was never meant to be said aloud. Something akin to gratitude and companionship and understanding... John shook his paper, returned to his article before Sherlock could grow uncomfortable. And yet still his flatmate lingered, standing frozen beside him. And just when John thought that the detective may have actually had some kind of stroke, Sherlock lifted the violin, rested it under his chin, and began to tune it.

And even before he had begun the concerto, John had lowered the paper, enraptured, watching the sunlight glide along the strings and reflect on Sherlock's porcelain skin, watching the bow arc gracefully through the air, watching the horsehair sing as those pale green eyes closed. Like tears, John thought suddenly. Like shimmering droplets of music, falling from somewhere private, and gracing the real world with their presence for fleeting, beautiful moments before slipping away again. John shut his eyes too. He listened to Sherlock play.

In a way, all the millions of worst possible moments that had come flying at him in the last few months were nothing compared to a moment like this. The moments that felt like, somehow, it was all worth it.

For now, they had won.

**The End.**

**Hope you all enjoyed the story. Not sure if I'll write anything else for Sherlock for a while, although if anyone can think of some fun one-shots let me know :) **

**Reviews are welcome.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR**


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